


The Dark Lord's Child

by limeta



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adopted Hermione Granger, Characters Play Dungeons & Dragons, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Family Drama, Father-Daughter Relationship, Halfblood Hermione Granger, Parent Voldemort (Harry Potter), Parent-Child Relationship, Slytherin Hermione Granger
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:08:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 48,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21902758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limeta/pseuds/limeta
Summary: Hermione Granger is Lord Voldemort's daughter, raised by muggles, and is basically the same except for some slight differences that may lead to bigger changes.
Relationships: Abraxas Malfoy/Tom Riddle, Bellatrix Black Lestrange/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Hermione Granger & Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Black Malfoy
Comments: 183
Kudos: 557
Collections: Voldemort's Children





	1. Chapter 1

The Dark Lord's Child

_Is a mistake_

When Bellatrix Lestrange found out that her lord's birthday was on December 31st she decided that she ought to do something special for it. It was 1978 and Bellatrix was dressed to the nines, or rather she preferred to be as little dressed as possible for the impending mission.

Men like her lord desperately wished for at least one hour of not thinking about anything. No war effort. No enemy brigades. No Dumbledore. No dying men and women dwindling his forces.

When she straddled him in his desk chair their kisses smelled of mulled wine.

* * *

A month later she asked him, quite bluntly, if he had ever heard of a contraceptive charm.

He retaliated by asking _her_ if _she'd_ heard of the same thing and if she wanted to seduce him she might as well be prepared what with her being a MARRIED woman.

This led to a very turbulent and passive aggressive fight that escalated further and further into a shouting match about the audacity of the other not to tell the other that they hadn't used a contraceptive charm.

''It's the man's responsibility! If even a smidgeon of chance existed of impregnating a woman even after the dark arts you've done to yourself you should have made sure to tell me about it!''

He had no proper comeback to that, so he just told her, quite briskly that: ''It was YOU who seduced ME, Bellatrix. If anyone knew what they were doing it was you. Good day.''

Then he left even though she had accosted him in his office in Malfoy Manor and logically she would have had to leave.

A few hours later they met up once more with a very giddy Abraxas Malfoy who told them that having a child was absolutely wonderful news. Antoinette Malfoy, his wife, looked at Bellatrix knowingly and lied straight to her face: ''Yes, pregnancy is a joy.''

Neither she nor her lord looked the least bit happy about this.

* * *

''Do you even want a child?''

''A bit too late to think about that now.''

''There are spells that can be used even after the accepted time-''

''They're too dangerous. We have a war to win.''

''To us, to the victors.''

''Yes.''

They toasted with water.

* * *

The matter of fact was that Bellatrix Lestrange was pregnant and she was both thrilled and really inconvenienced by the phenomenon. On one hand she had the Dark Lord's baby forming in her belly, whilst on the other hand she couldn't drink coffee anymore and she was going to massacre her lord and abscond to the Order of the Pheonix if he ever offered her to drink chamomile tea because black tea contained caffeine and was bad for the baby's brain development.

Rod was being a really good sport about it, though.

''I mean I would have preferred it if it were my child, but I still love you, you know.''

Bellatrix was about to retort and say something cruel because in these types of situations she never could fathom kindness, but luckily morning sickness kicked in and she was throwing up in a toilet. Saved by the miracle of pregnancy. She raised her head from the toilet and spittle dangled from her lips. Ugh.

* * *

''Will you care for it?''

''What kind of question is that?''

''You weren't raised to our ways.''

''I am the child's father.''

''A lot of men are their child's father and few of them care.''

''Will it be a Lestrange?''

''Will it be a bastard?''

''No. That I can tell you now. I take my duties seriously.''

''I hope so.''

Tentatively, reluctantly he placed a hand to Bellatrix's stomach and admitted: ''It will have a better life than mine was.''

''It will have parents.'' Bellatrix promised. Then, forcefully: ''It will be loved.''

He said nothing. That was fine. His presence was enough.

* * *

September 19th, 1979

Bellatrix Lestrange had a lot of things to say about childbirth and none of them were good.

''I should have gotten an abortion!''

 _''Then why didn't you?!''_ Lord Voldemort did not like to think about childbirth as his most immediate thought regarding it was _Death_. Bella looked so pale and worn out, yet angry enough to shout atop her lungs and scream her tongue off.

''I don't know! I had no idea it would be like this! **_Women lie!_** ''

Abraxas and Antoinette Malfoy winked and wished them good luck. It was easy for them to say so when their son was grown and starting his own family. Voldemort tried to recall young Abraxas and Antoinete and remembered that he was in Albania away from young fathers and pregnant women.

The agony lasted much longer than Voldemort thought it would. He was no expert on women's physiology, far be it, but he thought that it would at least last less. The birth was held in Malfoy Manor under protective wards that no one could slip through unless they were accepted first by the Lord of the Manor and that was Abraxas, his most devoted.

Narcissa and Antoinette were in the room with the healers. Rodolphus stepped up and got inside, looking at Voldemort for the first time in a strange sort of pitying light.

Lucius, Abraxas, and he were in a room far away from the noise and the fanfare of childbirth. He wouldn't be there to hold Bella's hand, he wouldn't be there to see her dying, he wouldn't be there to be reminded of his mother's death.

Bellatrix didn't mind. He told her that he couldn't be there with her and she said that that was all right. ''But I'm naming her then.''

''Her?''

''Oh yes, I did a spell to check the sex. It's a girl.'' Bellatrix smiled. Grinned more like.

''I suppose that's fair.'' Voldemort didn't know what to do with a child, let alone a daughter.

A long time after the start of the birth Antoinette came or rather sauntered into their room, holding up a bundle of sleeping joy that awoke when she exclaimed: ''Behold! A baby!'' She went straight for Voldemort and showed the small girl to him, introducing them: ''My lord, meet your daughter.''

Only the people present at her birth knew about her. Bella named their daughter Delphini. He was not a fan of the name, but all things considered he would reward Bella for surviving by allowing it.

Bella and Rodolphus went into hiding until Bella got better. She’d been gone for months, some before the birth, and some after it.

But she still came back to fight.

And there was a rage about her that made her glow fiercely. Because now she fought like a mother who had a child to come back to.

Voldemort briefly wondered where he would be now if his own mother had had any of that spark… If he’d had a mother?

* * *

October 31st,1981

This was the night Bellatrix got captured by Alastor Moody. She could feel pain emanating in her mark, unlike anything she’d ever felt and a scream tore itself from her throat, so raw and so painful (much more than any labour may have ever been) because her lord couldn’t be _dead_.

With tears in her eyes she screamed: **_‘’WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO HIM?!’’_**

* * *

Narcissa held her two year old niece and thought that the only way to survive this, to keep her husband by her side and to have her son grow up with two present parents was to give Dumbledore something great. She looked at little Delphini and whispered ‘’I am so sorry, darling girl.’’ She kissed her forehead and set up a meeting with Dumbledore.

* * *

What Dumbledore did with the girl, Narcissa didn’t know. She hated herself for not asking for a very long time.

Looking at her son growing up safely, with her husband out of prison and by her side – it did help her accept that maybe she didn’t have any other choice.

But sometimes she cried when nobody was home to hear her. Cried and wondered what her niece was up to or if she was even still alive. Surely she was? Dumbledore wouldn’t have sacrificed an innocent. The smart thing to do would be to hold her as leverage. Narcissa hoped Dumbledore thought similarly as she.

* * *

Arriving at platform Nine and Three-Quarters to escort Draco to his first year at Hogwarts was a magical moment for any parent. It meant that their child was growing up right before their eyes and that they could follow along and witness such steps.

But, Narcissa also thought that it was a magical moment because she saw a child being escorted by two muggles that was the spitting image of her sister.

Narcissa elbowed Lucius, who looked to where she glanced at. Lucius did a double take and whispered: ‘’Andromeda’s got _two_ children?’’ Because the girl looked a lot like Andromeda. Brown hair and brown eyes and a decisiveness about her that could only be found in a woman who defied her entire family for love. 

A laugh slipped past Narcissa’s well kept façade. Draco was aboard the Hogwarts Express and out of the way to hear when Narcissa asked: ‘’That girl is my _niece_.’’

Lucius understood then, and he inhaled sharply. Because all of the Death Eaters thought that their lord was dead and that no part of him remained. Very few were privy to the information that their lord had a daughter. Even fewer knew that their lord’s daughter was alive.

‘’We need to find out who she is.’’

‘’My thoughts exactly.’’

Narcissa shoved Lucius to go greet the muggle parents and the terrified look he speared her with was something she’ll forever remember. But it was because of him that she relinquished her hold on her niece, it was only fair that he got acquainted with her adoptive parents in order to learn more information.

‘’How do you do.’’ Lucius outstretched his arm and shook hands with a man who smiled and said the same. ‘’My name is Lucius Malfoy, this is my wife Narcissa. We couldn’t help but note that you weren’t our sort – magic – do you—‘’ the pain in his tone, ‘’need any help? It can be very,’’ another gasp, Narcissa smiled and chit-chatted with the woman, ‘’daunting to have a magical child.’’

‘’Oh, thank you so much. That’s very kind of you.’’ The man said. ‘’Our Hermione’s always been an oddball of a child and we were worried for her, but it’s just that she’s a witch. Is your son a first year, as well?’’

‘’His name’s Draco, and yes,’’ Narcissa smiled, ‘’I hope our children get along.’’

Dr. and Dr. Granger met Lord and Lady Malfoy and a friendship of convenience was formed.

Later that day, Narcissa was clinking champagne flutes with Lucius, Abraxas, and Antoinette all while saying: ‘’To Hermione Granger.’’


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You won, I made more . I hope you enjoy !

Hermione Granger was an incredibly awkward child.

Her only saving grace was the fact that she had unnaturally perfect teeth. Her parents were in love with those teeth first, and then their daughter.

Strange, Dr. Granger mused, all women from my side of the family have giant buckteeth, except for our little Hermione. To which Dr. Granger replied: To hell with your genetics, just be happy she hasn't taken after my side of the family where all our teeth need braces from ages twelve and onward.

Back to that infamous awkwardness of their daughter's. She had a bit of a lisp and it wasn't doing her any favours. Oftentimes, when frustrated, their dear daughter would hiss at one of the children and stomp away to go and play with her imaginary friends in the forest in their backyard.

Their daughter had a very big imagination, where she thought up all sorts of friends. Most of them snakes. Dr Granger bought her daughter a book about the world's snakes to entertain her, not knowing that these snake friends of hers were actual snakes.

''Look mummy,'' Hermione raised up the book, showcasing a page with grass snakes, ''it's Miss String!'' Miss String was Hermione's best friend. A few pages later there was a cobra and Hermione asked if they could go to the zoo in London to see more snakes. ''I wonder if they speak different languages.'' She smiled.

''Snakes?''

''Well yes, daddy, it would be very strange if an Australian Taipan spoke the same language as a Montenegrin poskok.'' Hermione said firmly. ''There's got to be different languages.''

Dr Granger blinked and looked to Dr Granger, waiting for an explanation. There was no explaining their awkward child's prattling.

* * *

Hermione was in awe of the snakes in the herpetology exhibit. She glued her eyes to the lazy snakes. One raised its head and hissed something.

Dr and Dr Granger found out a very startling thing that day.

Hermione hissed back, not as little children hissing for fun, but as a young and polite girl holding conversation.

Dr Granger nearly fainted.

''Daddy, are you okay?!''

He was fine. Albeit a little shaken up.

Later that day both dentists exhausted their daughter with questions, each answer eliciting more and more horror. ''YOU'VE BEEN SPENDING TIME WITH ACTUAL SNAKES?!''

''It's not like I didn't tell you.'' Hermione crossed her arms and glared at her parents. ''I told you they were snakes.'' That she did. Dr and Dr Granger looked at one another and wondered how it was possible, scientifically, medically for their daughter to speak to snakes.

Hermione shrugged. ''I'm like Dr. Doolittle.'' She smiled. Her parents saw those perfect teeth and came to the conclusion that if their child could avoid both of their terrible teeth genetics then she could talk to snakes, too, while she was at it.

* * *

Their daughter read a lot. Mostly because she didn't have many human friends her age. Dr and Dr Granger tried to change that to the best of their ability, but their daughter was just so... wilful and socially awkward and thought that playing with children her age was boring.

''Dear, dear you need friends.''

''I've got you as my friends!''

''Awww.''

''Don't aww her, Jean, you're _enabling_ her.''

''Oh do be quiet, Oscar, she's my baby girl.''

''She's my baby girl, as well, and she needs some human friends her age.''

''I have Miss String!'' Hermione did, indeed, have Miss String. She was an old grass snake that was more lazy than a fat tomcat. She was worse than any domesticated cat.

''Even her snake friends are older than her!'' Oscar cried out. 

* * *

Hermione was a very small girl when she discovered Miss String in her backyard. She was near a pond when this happened and had seen her pounce on a toad and gobble it up.

''Ew!''

Miss String, not named so then, turned towards Hermione and hissed: ''Ew yourself, leg-thing. What you feed on is just as repulsive to me as this is to you.''

Hermione pursed her lips, crossed her arms, and leaned forward slightly: ''I'm telling my mummy and daddy that you're eating toads.''

''If you bring the long leg-things I will be very angry at you, Speaker.'' Miss String slithered closer, in a more threatening gesture.

Hermione staggered back, falling. She yelped in fear.

Miss String laughed then, satisfied. She turned around and went about her way, hissing: ''If you don't want me to bite you, bring me the sun next time, Speaker.''

''Ugh.'' Hermione narrowed her eyes, bolder now when immediate danger wasn't upon her. ''You're a very mean string!''

''So impolite.'' Miss String turned. ''I could eat you now for your rudeness.''

Hermione blanched, but quickly recovered. ''No you can't, you're very little!''

Miss String stared.

Hermione stared back.

''So I am.'' Miss String allowed. ''And you are still rude.''

Hermione had never before been put in her place by a snake. It made her come back tomorrow and when Miss String found her, Hermione brought along a scarf and said: ''I can wrap you in this if you like,'' then, as if proving a point, _''Miss_ String.''

Bundled up in the scarf, Miss String hissed: ''This is very nice, Speaker.''

* * *

Odd things happened around Hermione as well.

Dr and Dr Granger bemoaned these occurrences and wondered if their daughter was some supernatural deity trapped in the body of a ten year old.

''Will this worsen in puberty?'' Dr Granger asked.

''It better not affect her teeth positions.'' Dr Granger replied hotly.

Hermione's hair changed sometimes. Mostly while reading. When she read about Alice's Adventures in Wonderland her hair was the blondest it'd ever been. Dr Granger nearly had a heart attack. _''MUM?!''_

When she read Matilda things flew around their home for **days**. Miss String was not amused when she flew around. In fact, her hissing finally got Hermione to stop levitating things. Dr and Dr Granger bought a very fat toad for Miss String as a thank you. She was very amused then. ''I am the most powerful leg thing, yet I have no legs.'' Miss String got very philosophical sometimes.

When reading the Hobbit Hermione actually grew a beard and it was a day and a half that would forever be remembered in the Granger household. Dr Granger screamed, Hermione screamed, Miss String hissed out a delighted scream, and Dr Granger filmed because this was the greatest day of his life. His daughter had a bigger beard than he himself, did.

''DAD, STOP FILMING!''

''NEVER!''

''OSCAR, I WILL DIVORCE YOU!''

''JEAN, IT SUITS HER VERY WELL!''

Hermione was in tears. Miss String was laughing. ''Speaker, very proper skin!''

Things stopped being funny when Hermione cried so hard that all of the windows broke.

''LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE, OSCAR!''

''JEAN, COME ON, IT WAS COMEDY GOLD!''

''STICK TO _DENTISTRY_!''

* * *

When Professor McGonagall came to their home, Dr and Dr Granger were not sceptical at all. Her visit, in fact, came as a relief to them both.

''Oh thank God.'' Dr Granger said.

''We were worried that she was one of a kind. I was ready to fight off government people if they came to do experiments on her.''

Dr and Dr Granger were well read people and when not reading about dentistry innovations they read fiction books and comic books. People like their Hermione got kidnapped and experimented on by secret government agents.

''You're not a government agent are you?''

Professor Minerva opened her mouth to explain that no, she was not.

''What can you do?'' Hermione finally got a word in. She had Miss String draped over her shoulders. The snake glared at the newcomer.

Professor Minerva McGonagall could turn into a cat.

''I WANT TO DO THAT!'' Hermione blurted out, elated to find out that magic could be so fun! And not chaotic as it tended to be whenever she attempted to do magic. ''Your transformation is very well done, professor. Mine are so...'' Hermione waved her arms around, ''all over the place.''

Once the professor returned to human form she questioned: ''Your _transformations_ , Miss Granger?''

Hermione thought about Princess Leia and her hair turned a shade darker to what her brown hair was usually like. It curled into the same curls the science-fiction princess sported.

''A metamorphagus.'' Professor Minerva McGonagall named that which neither Granger knew how to name. They were all so very pleased to hear that it had a name and was considered very normal, albeit rare a gift. Minerva did not say that muggleborns usually couldn't possess the trait, as it needed a magical carrier to pass on the gene. She kept her mouth shut on the subject of parselmouths needing the same magical carrier.

Looking between the Grangers and Hermione Granger, Minerva came to a thought that this girl was emulating her parents' appearance. She had the same brown hair, the same brown eyes, and the same facial structure. The teeth, though, were definitely different. Perchance Metamorphagi couldn't change their teeth? She would have to inquire Miss Tonks.

Oh no. A startling thought entered Minerva McGonagall's head. Nymphadora Tonks would get her hands on Hermione Granger. The chaos that could ensue from two Metamorphagi under one roof was too much to bear.

''Professor, since you're to accompany me to Diagon Alley, could I ask you to show me to a proper bookshop. I'd really like to learn everything I can about the magical world, you know. I'm so terribly behind! It's very overwhelming.''

Minerva said that she could take her to a bookshop, yes.

Dr and Dr Granger exchanged a very cruel look between each other.

Minerva understood after the fifteenth book that Hermione decided was most certainly important – even _integral_ – to her magical education.

There was a torn up book in the second hand section. Hermione went there because she realised that money was thinning and her craving was only widening. It was a book about fairies. Thrown out by some pureblood avoiding raids, no doubt. Minerva spelled to see if it was safe to have around, found that it was, and helped Hermione to the check out.

''Oooh it says here that some dragons can speak parseltongue. As well as fairies! Professor McGonagall, what's a _dementor_? Can we go meet one? I'd like to see if I'd understand them.''

Minerva believed that she was being tested by Merlin himself that day.

When she saw Albus, later on, she looked him in the eye and asked: ''Are you out of your mind not to warn a woman! I nearly had a heart attack when I saw the young girl! A parselmouth metamorphagus, Albus!''

''Oh my.'' Albus Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. ''That must have been a difficult child to raise. Tell me, Minerva, how is she like as a person, would you say?''

''Her only long term friend is a mean snake that threatened to bite me.''

''Ah, takes after her father I see.''

''She's got a pair of lungs on her, from a story I heard. Shattered some windows as accidental magic.''

''Oh no.'' Albus Dumbledore paled. ''No.'' He shook his head, a harrowing look coming about him. ''I can't go through that again, Minerva. Not another Walburga Black, dear gods.''

* * *

Hermione met a boy named Neville on the Hogwarts Express. He'd lost a toad.

''Well, I can assure you it's probably alive. There aren't any snakes on the train. I ought to know as my snake was disallowed from coming with me.'' Hermione thought that rules were very important. The very last thing she wanted was to get expelled.

Neville nodded faintly and asked Hermione if she could help him look. Hermione said that she could, mostly because she had nothing else to do. ''I've already read all the coursework for this semester. It's _very_ fascinating!''

Hermione saw Neville's head swimming with information. She showed him her wand and asked him what his wand was. It was his dad's wand.

''Mine's vine wood with dragon heartstring's core.''

* * *

Ollivander looked at Hermione Granger and blinked slowly like a very old owl. ''I'll be very surprised if you get unicorn hair.''

''What's that mean?''

''Timid people, them.'' Ollivander said. ''With a confused heart. They rarely know where to go.''

''Oh.'' Hermione nodded.

Dragon heartstring core. ''Very good core.'' He deliberated on saying this next part, ''Tends to favour offensive magic.'' Hermione stood rooted in place for another ten minutes, asking more and more questions about the functionality of a wand. Ollivander answered every single question in explicit detail.

Minerva stood at the door frame and waited for this madness to end.

''If you want to learn about wand making, I'll be happy to take you on as an apprentice after your schooling, Miss Granger.''

''Oh, thank you so much. But that's so far away from now I shan't be making any promises!''

Ollivander smiled a benign smile. ''Such an inquisitive child.''

* * *

**_''HAS ANYONE SEEN A TOAD!''_ **

The trolley lady looked in horror in the direction where this booming voice had come from, whispering only faintly to herself: ''No. No I barely survived those seven years. I can't do another seven. Not another Walburga Black. All of her children and nieces avoided her voice, no. Oh goodness no.''

* * *

Harry and Ron met Hermione Granger how they always did: in a compartment on the Hogwarts Express. She outstretched her hand to shake, because she was reinventing herself and maybe now whilst she was with alike thinkers she could make some proper friends her own age.

''You've got some dirt on your nose.'' Hermione thought herself a very helpful individual.

Ron glowered at her. He whispered some choice things after botching a spell with his pet rat. Hermione said that she had a snake back home that ate rats like his. She thought that she was being a good conversationalist, trying to keep the conversation going. Hermione was incredibly awkward at these things.

The rat looked afraid of Hermione. Ron said that she scared his precious Scabbers.

''What kind of name is that?'' Hermione scoffed.

''What's your snake's name?''

''Miss String.''

Ron guffawed at that.

Hermione narrowed her brown eyes and hissed: _''Oh what do you know, leg-thing.''_

Harry laughed. _''Did you just call Ron a **leg-thing**?''_

The wide, wide smile that enveloped Hermione's visage at finding another parselmouth could not be explained in mere words.

* * *

Harry Potter became Hermione's best friend.

Ron said something about parselmouths being associated with dark magic, mostly because he'd been taught that all of his life, but then when he looked at Harry and Hermione thought about it better. ''You're too silly to be invested in dark magic.'' Then, ''do snakes really call people leg-things?''

''Yes, they've got their own dialects and nomenclatures and verb formations and it's all so very, very interesting!''

Ron glanced at Harry and asked him when he'd first realised that he could talk to snakes. A story about a boa constrictor and a very mean cousin followed.

''I could try teaching you if you like.'' Hermione offered to Ron. ''Languages are rather fun to learn.''

''Isn't that sort of ... inborn?'' Ron's head spun with how fast this girl talked.

''Pfft.'' Hermione did not believe in things being just a given. ''Anything's possible if you just set your mind to it and manage not to terrify the neighbours into calling the police.''

''What?'' Harry asked, smiling weirdly.

''That's our family motto.'' Hermione explained. She had very supportive parents.

''Are you an only child?'' Ron asked.

Hermione nodded. ''Yes, what's that got to do with anything?''

Ron nodded sagely. ''Yeah, that explains it.''

* * *

''OK, so we're all going to try for Gryffindor, yes? That's the plan?''

''The Hat chooses for you, you can't try anything, I think.''

''What bloody Hat? I thought I had to fight a mountain troll?''

* * *

Hermione Granger had the misfortune of being the first to be sorted out of her new companions. She sat on the stool and had the Hat on her head.

''Hello.''

''Hello, Hat.''

''A very inquisitive mind, I see. You would do well in Ravenclaw, but Slytherin is where you belong-''

''Sorry, Mr. Hat. I've made a deal to go to Gryffindor with my new friends and I intend to keep that promise.''

The Hat chuckled. ''Usually, I offer such deals, but Salazar Slytherin would find a way to come back from beyond the veil to burn me if I allowed you into Godric's House, Miss Hermione.''

Hermione had a lot of questions about that, but before she could voice them, the Hat boomed: **''SLYTHERIN!''**

* * *

Draco Malfoy.

Was a little _fink_.

That was all.

* * *

Hermione's hair changed from brown to blond to black to blue to red to green green green green green as she glared at her new House. Her friends weren't in this House. They'd gotten into Gryffindor. It was very unfair.

Millicent Bulstrode was the only bloody plus to being in Slytherin. Well, okay, that was a lie. Her cat was the only plus. A very fat and lazy tomcat that reminded Hermione dearly of Miss String. ''What's his name?''

''Mr. Whiskers.''

Hermione glanced at Mr. Whiskers' whiskers and found the name very apt. The cat, indeed, had whiskers and was male.

* * *

Potions was a nightmare.

Hermione raised her arm to answer all of these inane questions the professor was posing. Harry hadn't read the material, it was obvious. Seeing that he would not call on her, Hermione dropped her arm, but she did hiss out the answer to the last question. He got it right, but the look Professor Snape pierced her with was the strangest she'd ever seen. Then, he glanced at Harry, who'd understood said hissing, and widened his look to accommodate even bigger disbelief.

It was all so very comical.

* * *

Even though they weren't in the same House, Hermione and Harry tried to sit in the classes they had together. Ron sat with Harry when they didn't have joint classes. Really, they had a nice schedule going on. Perfectly reasonable. Hermione liked structure. She timed their free periods for hang out time. Ron drew the line at her planning their study sessions. ''EXAMS ARE A WAY AWAY, WOMAN!''

''YOU CAN NEVER BE PREPARED ENOUGH!''

''BLIMEY, SHE'S CRAZY!''

Harry said nothing, just smiled. Smart man, this Potter.

* * *

Hermione's _favourite_ class had to be DADA. It was all so interesting. The professor called on her lots of times. Hermione felt heard and validated as the only student to kick arse academically. No amount of hand waving and 'Oh pick me, me, ME!' was enough to get under Professor Quirrel's skin.

Harry and Ron said that Professor Quirrel was weird. Hermione didn't see it. She chalked this up as her friends being _jealous_.

* * *

''OK, how can you talk to snakes?'' Draco Malfoy asked her.

''Because I can.''

Draco didn't have a comeback to this.

* * *

''How can YOU talk to snakes?'' Draco Malfoy asked Harry.

''Err, just because, I suppose.''

Draco made an aggrieved noise in the back of his throat.

But then his catchphrase made an appearance: ''WAIT UNTIL MY FATHER HEARS ABOUT THIS!''

* * *

Lucius Malfoy and Dr. Granger talked about not-politics and not-dentistry which made them somehow get to the topic of sports. It was very difficult to hold conversation about sports as Dr. Granger didn't know anything about quidditch and the only muggle sport that Lucius knew was some sort of Eurosong that his father listened to yearly.

Narcissa Malfoy and Dr Granger had no such problems. Mothers could talk about their children for ages. They even shared some favourite books. This was never going to end.

Lucius pleadingly looked towards Narcissa and begged through their shared occlumency channels: Cissa, _please_ , I want to go home.

* * *

''Our parents are friends, _yuck_.''

* * *

Word got around very quickly that there were two parselmouths at Hogwarts.

Albus Dumbledore got visited by lots of aurors, and lots of ex Death Eaters that were very concerned with their children and grandchildren being influenced by such... sinister forces.

During this invasion of sorts, Professor Quirrel could be seen very casually leaving the premises of Hogwarts for relaxing walks in the countryside.

* * *

Tonks.

Hermione found.

Was an agent of chaos.

She smiled down at Hermione and said: ''Wotcher!''

Her hair was bubblegum pink. Hermione's turned bubblegum pink, then.

They shook hands.

''I'm going to teach you so many things, kid, just you wait!''

Hermione _did_ love learning.

* * *

Professor Quirrel saw Hermione and Tonks interacting. It was a look of horror.

The faculty cried out: ''NOT TWO OF THEM! NOT TWO OF THEM NOW!''

When the Weasley twins joined this strange gang of sorts, the cries grew louder.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore wondered about parentage and lineages and that upbringing had a big play in how a person was formed.

Because Hermione had yet to maim anyone and her father had already maimed many a child.

Though, her mother hadn't and maybe she had taken after her mother more?

* * *

Hermione asked Professor Quirrel if he could write her a permission slip for the Restricted Section.

The speed with which Quirrel wrote that permission slip gave Hermione whiplash.

_''Go forth and learn, child!''_

Hermione was too busy staring at the permission slip to notice that Professor Quirrel's lips hadn't moved when those words were said.

* * *

From the Restricted Section, Hermione rented out many books about the history of the magical world. She knew, on a very important level, that she was too young to learn spells that came from that section, but history was important to know. She asked Draco what it meant to have fairy relations.

''I have no fairy relations.'' Draco sneered.

Hermione showed him the book she found that said that three families had fairy blood: Lovegoods, Ollivanders, and Malfoys.

''It's none of your business!''

Maybe it wasn't. But Hermione wouldn't be spoken to like this. A fight emerged from these two. It was a very bad one. A certain M word was exchanged.

Hermione surged out of the Common Room crying.

* * *

There was some engraved instinct in crying girls that made them go and cry their eyes out in toilets. It was an unspoken rule. And Hermione Granger relished in following rules to the letter.

Hermione had gone into a toilet with a ghost this time around. Not one with a troll. It made a load of difference. 

Myrtle Warren laughed at her misfortune and said that she ought to find a way to get back at Draco and really, properly hurt him. ‘’If I could find out who killed me~’’ The ghost allowed herself to daydream, twisting around Hermione’s small form.

Through her crying and her very passionate feelings on all subjects, and her lack of understanding of societal expectations – a voice emerged. 

_‘’Small sound. Small sound, do not distress.’’_

Hermione blinked away the onslaught of tears and tried to calm her hiccuping, if only to hear another sentence from that voice. It was unlike anything she’d ever heard. Old. Ancient. Eldritch.

Myrtle did not seem to hear it, because she continued devising dangerous plans for revenge

_‘’Very good, small sound. Come to me. I have stories.’’_

Hermione contemplated between following the voice and not doing so. Not doing so would entail that she would live another day. But following the voice may lead to new knowledge. She bit her lip and contemplated. It was a very difficult decision. Especially as she did not know how to come to the voice.

 _‘’Where are you?’’_ Hermione spoke and only when the voice told her where she was did she realise that she had spoken in parseltongue. Oh well. That narrowed things down. The voice either belonged to a fairy or a snake.

Then, though, Hermione remembered another thing she’d read.

Some **dragons** spoke parseltongue.

Hermione’s eyes sparked.

She could threaten to set Draco _ON FIRE_.

Threaten only, because Hermione refused to get expelled because of an idiot.

Hermione spoke into the snake on the sink and had to say that this slide didn’t look nearly as ominous as she’d expected it to be.


	3. Chapter 3

Quirinus Quirrel had a lot of things to say about his current living arrangements. Mostly due to the fact that he was not living his own, independent life - and kind of felt like he had a very old man looking over his shoulder and criticizing everything he did. This was, well, because he did have an old man living not only with him, but literally attached to him. To compare this old man to a leech, would be improper; to compare this old man to a parasite, would be even worse. So, he likened him to a disgraced dark wizard, as this was exactly what the old man was. 

Now, even with all of this in mind, and the added discomfort of living together as one strange being - Quirinus Quirrel had to draw the line _somewhere_. And the hill he chose to die on was telling the Dark Lord off about his blatant favouritism for the young Hermione Granger. Sure, the girl was brilliant, but there were other children to call on. He couldn't spend the entire Defence class being bombarded by the Dark Lord telling Quirrel to call her on at every single question. That just wasn't fair to the rest of the class! 

Whenever Quirrel had DADA with the first year Slytherins, his lord would fight for control most adamantly. Quirrel always gave it to him, knowing that when the time came for his lord to have his own body, his actions now would either make or break him. It was best to indulge his lord's whims. The Dark Lord had a fixation on teaching...and calling on a completely strange and uncomfortably intense child. These were the very last things Quirrel ever expected to find out about his master. Yet here he was. 

* * *

A lot of classes passed by Quirrel, and he began to wonder why his lord was so happy to call on Hermione Granger. It didn't make sense. Not that the girl herself made much sense to begin with; she was muggleborn, but a parselmouth and a metamorphagus. From his limited understanding of magical genetics, such a thing was an impossibility. Therefore the girl was of magic blood, but didn't know it. The Dark Lord said nothing to these thoughts, even though he could read them. It was very disconcerting to know that not even Quirrel's thoughts were his own anymore. 

Miss Granger had no tell as to whose child she was. No platinum hair of a Malfoy, no Black eyes to stare directly into your soul and suck out your secrets with effortless legilimency (all of them had it, it was an open secret), no Nott noses to poke someone's eye out, no Lestrange ears to hear all of your secrets... No, the girl was just - _there_. 

Needless to say, Quirrel was stumped. Harry Potter being a parselmouth only complicated his theories. Was the girl a secret Potter? Was Harry not a Potter, but in fact some form of illicit, deviant love-child from a scandalous, hidden affair? No Potter, as far as he knew his history, could speak parseltongue. Was Harry Potter his lord's _son_? 

Quirrel's thoughts seemed to be too vocal that late evening for Lord Voldemort whispered, very menacingly: ''Get to sleep, you dolt.''

''My apologies, my lord.''

Quirrel did not go to sleep until Lord Voldemort, having been bullied by such loud thoughts, told Quirrel that Harry Potter was not his son, and that Hermione Granger was his long lost daughter and that if he wanted to keep all of his limbs Quirrel ought to keep his mouth shut and his mind closed off. All in all. This was a very contemplative night for Quirinus Quirrel. As he slept on his side and stared at the wall, Quirrel wondered about mothers next.

Voldemort did not get any sleep that night, either.

He had to intervene when Quirrel thought that Walburga Black could perchance be the mother of his child. That Hermione girl did have a pair of lungs on her.

''I refuse to listen to such _**slander**_.'' Lord Voldemort hissed to him, showing great animosity for the late Walburga Black. Quirrel apologized. 

* * *

Snape was on to him. Them. It got very difficult to differentiate that. Sometimes he forgot who he was whilst being occupied by another, more demanding entity. 

When Snape shoved Quirrel to the wall and caused him to hit the back of his head, he already knew that he was going to get an earful from his lord about this rough handling.

''Quirrel,'' Snape tried to intimidate, and he was quite good at it, too. ''One wrong move and I will ensure you never see the light of day. You will be enveloped in darkness from whence you cannot leave.''

Quirrel did not think well when under such strenuous circumstances. ''T-that would ex-explain your dress, S-snape. Ca-cannot see what you wear in the dark-k, ca-can you?''

Later he would be told by Voldemort that it was a good attempt at a comeback, but that it needed more work.

Quirrel didn't exactly remember at what point the Dark Lord became Voldemort in his head. But their shared existence had to account for that change.

* * *

Harry Potter being a parselmouth was a very strange conversation to break down.

Quirrel didn't understand anything. Voldemort, though, seemed to understand a lot of things. And he was not pleased. In fact, he was rather livid.

When Voldemort got livid, Quirrel got a migraine. It was a thankless existence being a vessel for a disgraced dark wizard.

* * *

Voldemort didn't tell him why he was livid that Harry Potter was a parselmouth, but Quirrel chalked it up as the boy being some distant cousin of his. With their small magical world it wasn't impossible.

If Quirrel's cousin vanquished him at age one, he, too, would be livid.

* * *

One evening Voldemort woke Quirrel up and told him to dress and leave.

''Where- where are we going?'' Quirrel whispered.

They were going to a girl's lavatory. Because Voldemort heard hissing in the pipes. 

''Did the children get trapped in the pipe system?'' Quirrel asked, yawning and rubbing the sleep form his eyes. 

Voldemort did something then that he'd not done ever. He shoved Quirrel and took over . His eyes turned red and Not Quirrel But In Fact Voldemort went to hiss at a snake in a sink.

* * *

Voldemort was unaccustomed to movement. Vaguely he thought to reminisce a newly born peafowl he’d seen in Malfoy Manor. They were so clumsy. Clumsier than Miss Tonks, for certain. (She was a very bad influence on his child, but given how they were cousins he would allow it...reluctantly)

Quickly he grasped hold of a pillar in the Chamber and pushed his weight onto it, willing his feet to work as he envisioned. Quirrel was not fighting him. Good, obedient man, that Quirrel. This was only a will over matter situation now. Voldemort took in a deep breath and exhaled it as deeply as he could. With a clearer head, he tried to take another step forward. There would be nothing that could stop him from achieving his goal. He was at Hogwarts and he was the Heir of Slytherin. Step. Every single bone in this body fought him, on a subconcious level, and Voldemort gritted his teeth and forced his way through every obstacle. He was Lord Voldemort - nobody could stop him, only ever divert his plans and slow him down. It took him a while, though in the end he conquered this body as his own and these very clumsy feet listened to _his_ commands.

How he conducted himself next would need to be calculated. As his eyes, Quirrel's technically, could not gaze into the eyes of the Basilisk. But, his child's could, because she had the blood of Salazar Slytherin in her veins. So, Voldemort clenched and unclenched his hands and thought. Briefly he chanced a glance in the hissing's direction and saw Hermione staring down the Basilisk like it was an ordinary snake. This was bad conduct on her part. Too trusting in his opinion. That damned snake could eat her in one bite if she wanted to. 

Hermione seemed to be hissing a lot of things at the giant serpent, known in some countries as the child of Jormungandr. In a fit of inspiration, Voldemort remembered naming her Beatrice. It was a good, proper name, and one that Beatrice wholeheartedly accepted. He'd searched for the source of the incessant hissing during his prefect rounds in his fifth year just as hungrily as Dante had searched for Beatrice in the Divine Comedy books. 

Voldemort wondered why his child had gone out of her way to find the Basilisk, but when he craned his head and tuned his ears to better listen found out that - much alike Warren - his daughter had fled to this bathroom due to bullying. Hermione cried and talked about how people were weird and mean. Draco Malfoy was such a fink and she didn’t know what to do. 

Beatrice leaned down so she could nuzzle her head against Hermione in comfort. Then her voice reverberated throughout these ancient halls. It was a voice of malice for any that hurt _her_ small sounds. Voldemort felt a tad less special to hear that Beatrice called everyone she could speak to small sound. The throes of growing up and becoming disillusioned did not leave him without scars. 

Quirrel asked if they should be here and what their plan was if Beatrice turned on them. Voldemort hadn’t his old body, hadn’t the blood of Salazar Slytherin coursing through him, that enabled him to hold gaze with Beatrice unharmed. It was a good question.

Hermione patted Beatrice and asked her for advice.

Voldemort wanted to interject that Beatrice’s advice whenever he came to her about his troubles was to:

‘’Eat your enemy, small sound.’’

‘’Long one,’’ Hermione spoke back, ‘’that is not how people solve their problems.’’

‘’If you did you would have less problems and solve overpopulation.’’

Voldemort hid from view and listened. He’d panicked upon hearing Beatrice awoken and rushed here with Quirrel. Beatirce was a very conniving serpent who tried her best to convince anyone that could understand her that being cooped up in the Chamber was no place for her and that it drove her stir crazy. 

‘’I could take care of your dragon problem.’’ Beatrice hissed.

Hermione shook her head no. Smart girl. Leave the murderous serpent be and go back to bed. Voldemort fretted that the Chamber opening would lead to him being found out. This would not suit him. Not until he got the stone and fled for a safe house. 

For a small child, Hermione (a much better name than Delphini) was holding her own against an ancient creature very well. Voldemort had been a bitter and misanthropic teenager. Very few things could pull the wool over his eyes then. Though, the child seemed to lack a very key component Voldemort had growing up: an ingrained distrust for authority figures that claimed to have the best in mind for you.

‘’Matilda, that would be very _improper_. I don’t want you to get hurt.’’

Ah. So Beatrice was Matilda now. That snake changed names more often than she did skin.

Matilda hissed, very lovingly then. Where was that fondness when Voldemort was coming here? Honestly. He had sweet talked many a person. Unlike the girl. who was very awkward. To be fair, she did have a knack for speaking parseltongue. Apparently, from his eavesdropping, Hermione had many snakes to talk to back home. Voldemort hadn’t. If anything, he was proud that she had better snake etiquette than he did. A scoff escaped him at that mental image. Snake etiquette. They just complained about the weather all the time. 

Hermione climbed up to sit on Matilda’s scaly back. She reclined and dazedly questioned: ‘’Long one, don’t you get lonely here?’’

‘’I do. Small sounds come sometimes. I call to them, but very few are speakers.’’

‘’That’s so sad!’’

Well, Voldemort came to a harrowing conclusion: his daughter had **empathy**. This confused him, because he could swear that neither he nor Bellatrix had much of that. Or if they did, at some point, they later on decided to turn it off for the sake of surviving war. 

‘’I’ll come to you every week!’’

‘’Week?’’ Matilda hissed.

This was familiar.

‘’Isn’t that enough for you, long one?’’

The Basilisk lulled you into a false sense of security and hissed at you how a week was too little. How she loved you and how she wanted you to come often and often and often and the next bloody thing you know a child is dead because a thousand year old snake got the better of you. Myrtle Warren was an accident. His father, depending on his stance on taking responsibility for his son, was meant to be the first. Or Dumbledore. This was before the man defeated Gellert Grindelwald. Voldemort knew better after that. Dumbledore was untouchable. He would need a miracle to get the man to die. Or Bella. Hm. She was willful enough to charge him. 

Beatrice slithered through the tunnels, very slowly so she did not disturb Hermione’s rest. ‘’More than once a week, small sound. I would be very happy.’’

Ha. As if snakes could feel! This bloody **_manipulator_** just wanted to eat and kill.

‘’Matilda, you’re very dear to me, but I have a schedule to adhere to and once a week is when I have free time to visit you. Don’t take it personally. I write my parents only twice a week. They understand. The Granger rule is to always know what the next step is. Else you’ll get confused and saunter about, I imagine.’’

Voldemort wanted to have words with these people who have raised his daughter. Listening to her was giving him -Quirrel's body technically, an ulcer. Hermione sounded like she was one seminar away from becoming a devoted bureaucrat. Voldemort (or was it Quirrel) thought about a pink cardigan wearing witch they'd interacted with once or twice in the past whilst at the Ministry. 

That was it. He was intervening. Eyesight be damned. The Basilisk needed to stay where she was. 

Quirrel stopped him then. Fighting _him_? Oh the nerve!. The gall! This irreverent worm!

''I need eyes, my lord!''

''Quirrel, you're merely a means to an end. Act like it.'' Voldemort never thought himself a kind individual. He pushed himself towards Matilda and Hermione, but only one foot would listen to him. Were Voldemort familiar with a movie named Bambi, there would be a comparison somewhere in there for him to use. 

Hermione startled at the sight of him. Them. ''Professor Quirrel?'' Then, she turned affronted. ''What are you doing in the _girl's_ lavatory?'

''What are you doing with a Basilisk?'' Voldemort countered. 

''She lives here and I'm her guest. You're uninvited. Very rude form, sir.''

Momentarily confused as to how to reply to that, Voldemort only stared. Hermine's hair curled inward and then outward on its own. She crossed her arms and stared down at him from Matilda's body. 

‘’Det-det- **detention**!’’ Quirrel had taken over. Voldemort realised that he was not cut out to be a parent. He allowed the more pedagogical inhabitant of Quirrel’s body to have his way.

Hermione looked horrified. ‘’Professor, I’m sorry! That was – that was so out of line.’’ She slid down from Matilda’s body and rushed to him, helping him up. ’’I- I’m so sorry. That was – I have no words for myself, sir. Will this affect my mark? I love your lessons I wouldn’t want this to ruin a good rapport we’ve built up.

What bloody eleven year old knew the word **_rapport_**? Did these Grangers set out to raise a voracious writer and made sure to feed her books instead of food? This spoke of neglect to him. Or maybe he was so convinced that muggles could only neglect a magical child because his upbringing was lacking… Voldemort hoped, at least, that the child had been spared the orphanage and institutional abuse of a Great Depression world. Yes, once he returned his body, he would spare the Grangers, or at least make their ends painless because they’d given Hermione a proper name. What was Bella thinking? _Dolphin_ girl? What kind of inane—

And Quirrel was actually talking to her about safety and stranger danger and how even though Hermione knew to talk to snakes, how she did people, did that mean that she blindly trusted every person she met?

‘’Well, no… I suppose not.’’ Hermione looked sheepish. 

Quirrel was much better at dealing with children than Voldemort had given him credit for.

While this was going on, Matilda attempted to slither out of the Chamber and cause havoc. Not today, snake! Voldemort shoved Quirrel out of the way , again, and used all of the power he had left for today to spell the snake immobile. Next he grabbed hold of Hermione and rushed to get out before the spell broke.

Once properly outside the Chamber, with the Basilisk locked down there, it was Voldemort that turned to Hermione and asked her: ‘’What were you even doing outside of the Slytherin common room?’’

Quirrel berated him on lack of continuity and that they had to stutter with everyone. Voldemort was very tired. His agenda for the remainder of the evening was to escort Hermione to her bed and then sleep these events off.

Hermione didn’t seem to notice his stutters. But just because something didn’t seem to be the case, didn’t mean it _wasn’t_ the case. Hermione just wanted to get very high marks and if keeping quiet on her professor’s obviously fake stuttering quirk meant she would achieve this, then so be it.

‘’Answer the question.’’ Voldemort nudged Hermione with his elbow. They were going down shortcuts he remembered taking. Very few portraits lined the walls which meant there were very few eyes and ears and mouths for Dumbledore to exploit.

‘’Draco Malfoy made me upset and I went to have a cry.’’ Hermione mumbled. Such a stupid bloody reason to nearly get the school closed because of the Basilisk. Have a cry? Voldemort wished to scoff, but found it more prudent to keep Hermione from crying again. Were all children emotional? He hadn't been. Well. All right. That would be too hypocritical even by his standards. Children cried because they didn't understand the world properly. 

''Aren't you going to ask what he did?'' Hermione asked him, craning her neck to look up. Voldemort didn't want to ask. But fine. 

‘’What did he do?’’ 

‘’Draco Malfoy called me a mudblood.’’ Hermione waited for a reaction of horror and revulsion. Think again, child. That'd been a common thing he'd heard when he was thought to be a mudblood orphan. When they'd found out about his being Heir of Slytheirn, oh, the purebloods were so quick to throw themselves at him. 

‘’Did you maybe antagonize him before that?’’ Voldemort had seen how Hermione reacted. The girl had a problem playing with others. This would cost her in the long run if she didn't work to change her ways. People liked when they were listened to and respected (or at least thought that they were respected). 

Hermione blinked, obviously not expecting this question. ''He was being mean. I just asked him a question.''

''About what?''

''I read in a book that he had fairy blood and I wanted to know what that meant.''

''It means his entire family think they're superior to everyone else. Fairy blood makes for magically charged individuals, or they're gifted in other branches of magic - like predicting the future. His grandfather, Abraxas Malfoy, made unerring arithmancy predictions. Lucius, that's the boy's father, seemed to never be hit by a spell while he fought in a war. You do know about the war -'' Hermione nodded, ''-nasty business. It all could have been regulated through politics, but the wizengamot wouldn't let anyone other than pureblooded Sacred Twenty-Eight near them. And then, Albus Dumbledore defeats Grindelwald in duel and gets elected Mugwump...the Ministry truly went downhill since then. A forceful takeover was the only way to do anything.'' 

Hermione squinted. ''Wait you're a supporter of You-Know-Who?''

''Voldemort. Don't call him that, it's inane. He has a name.'' Quirrel told Voldemort to tone it down. He finally obliged. ''I don't support him, no.'' 

Somehow, Hermione seemed even more suspicious of this admission. Right. Voldemort need only remember with whom he'd made this child. All Blacks had a dose of natural legilimency about them. He stood no chance when playing cards against Bellatrix. But that was the extent of her legilimency. She was an open book to him, too. Contrary to Narcissa, whose shields he never could fully get past. But even that couldn't compare to Walburga Black - Voldemort felt a chill - that could see through him like one could through polished glass. 

''Are you going to take points from Malfoy for calling me that?'' Hermione had a lot more freedom when speaking to adults than Voldemort ever had. Even now he was too polite when dealing with people he disliked. Perhaps that was what working in retail had done to him...He wouldn't put it past Burke to have brainwashed him into smiling at any sign of confrontation. How many times had Hepzibah Smith demanded to speak to Burke and patronized him? Too many to count. 

Quirrel nudged Voldemort into answering Hermione. His thoughts tended to just go places, as if not anchored because of his current state of being. He looked at Hermione and told her, quite frankly: ''No, I won't take points. You're both in Slytherin. It's not in your interest. Remember that whilst you're at Hogwarts and in that House, you must abide by rules.''

''I know all of the rules.''

''Not the ones you read in books and hear from professors, child. There are more rules in Slytherin than there are in the Statute of Secrecy.'' 

Quirrel, a Ravenclaw, had a lot of things to say about this clear misinformation, but because he valued his life he kept his mouth firmly shut. 

''Then how do they expect me to know the rules if nobody wants to tell them to me?''

Voldemort was becoming aware of the fact that his child was, exactly that, a bloody child. He sighed. ''You're a parselmouth. Go to Salazar Slytherin's painting in the Common Room, preferably without anyone around, and ask him everything.'' 

Hermione's eyes sparked to life at the prospect of speaking to a founder. ''He'll understand me?''

''Parseltongue hasn't changed throughout history as much as English. He doesn't understand English. Though, Gaelic he somewhat does. He's Irish, if you didn't know.''

''How do you know about that?''

Quirrel, yet again, wondered if Voldemort secretly wanted to be caught with how flippantly he spoke to his daughter. 

''I have strange hobbies.'' Voldemort explained. He found that lying was best done if an element of truth was thrown in there. ''Sometimes I just start reading a topic and want to know how far it'll lead me. Usually I end up in a section in the library I had absolutely no intention of stepping into.''

Hermione nodded as if explained everything. Honestly, it did. This had happened to all three parties. 

''Miss Granger, have you any friends?'' Voldemort was friendly with lots of Ravenclaws in his formative years - because he knew that not having any visible friendships was a bad idea socially and painted one as wrong and unsociable. This garnered people to ask tedious questions about his life. It was bad enough Dumbledore had thought him born-evil, he needn't other people to do so as well. Dumbledore had been a professor during his time, but as a Headmaster he had more power. Hermione, if she was anything like him, needed to blend in and do so quick. Dumbledore watched her and asked the professors about the muggleborn Slytherin often. Too often. 

''I've got friends. Just not in Slytherin.''

''Don't you think that there is a reason for that?''

''Yes.'' 

Voldemort waited. 

Hermione delivered. ''Because they're all stupid and don't know how to value my brilliance.''

It was kind of like looking at a small clone. ''Don't you think that you think they're stupid because you don't let them show you how smart they are?'' Voldemort had learned the hard way that people liked being listened to, and they absolutely loved thinking that they were _worth_ being listened to. A well timed smile or nod in conversation made all the difference in the world. It was how he'd landed Abraxas as an eternal pawn. 

''I don't think they have any latent talents to show off, sir.'' Hermione spoke with derision for the Sacred Twenty-Eight children. Voldemort stifled a laugh into a snort. 

‘’My advice to you is that if you wish to survive seven years in Slytherin, without going to have a cry - as you put it - every other day is to stand to be _nicer._ ’’

Slughorn had given this exact same piece of advice to Voldemort when he was eleven. They’d called him Slytherin’s Mudblood because of his surname and poor clothes, and he’d retaliated by being better than them and alienating himself from all of his snakes. The Ravenclaws loved him. But as Slughorn taught him: ‘’Miss Granger,’’ what an inane way to call one’s own child, ‘’they could prove useful to you one day. You haven’t got the same connections they do and it would be very beneficial to you, a very brilliant young girl, to give them a chance. Pull back on your tattling and your hand. Trust me, everyone knows you know the answer, but give someone else a chance? Who knows,’’ Voldemort shrugged, ''perhaps you might even be surprised to find like-thinkers among your peers.''

Hermione thought about this very hard. When her face scrunched up like that, Voldemort vaguely saw Cygnus Black. But she had his boring brown eyes, the ones he'd had before splitting his soul. A piece of him did manage to adorn his child. It felt good to mark the girl as his. He'd been too worried she'd look nothing like him, as those Black genes tended to dominate, but he was pleasantly surprised to find that she looked a lot like he did when he was her age. There was something there, too, that he couldn't quite place - maybe something she'd picked up from the Grangers. Metamorphagi looked however they liked. 

‘’Eh. Sir,'' The girl spoke, ''I don’t like the idea of selling myself short for _anyone_.’’

‘’Mh?’’

‘’It isn’t like I’ll depend on my classmates… I’ve learned to live without friends and if you work really hard connections will come on their own. I can talk to adults just fine, it’s just children I have problems with. And by the time I’ll need to network, I imagine I’ll have normal people to talk to.’’

This child needed someone to teach her how to work the system fast, or else she was going to truly wind up as an undersecretary in the Ministry. 

‘’Miss Granger,’’ Voldemort tried again, ‘’nobody will want to work with you if you don’t show them you can work with them _first_.’’

Hermione seemed to understand a little better. ‘’Ugh.’’

‘’Yes.’’

‘’That’s so stupid.’’

‘’I never said it wasn’t.’’

‘’ _I_ have to change _myself_?’’ The horror was what got Voldemort to laugh. She fixed him with a glare with his eyes. But she said nothing, because she was talking to a teacher.

Before they parted ways, Hermione thanked professor Quirrel for helping her with Matilda and just, overall, helping her with her problems.

‘’N-not a pr-problem, Mi-miss Granger.’’

Hermione did not say anything about the fake stuttering, even though Voldemort briefly delved into her surface thoughts and saw a very unamused thought playing out in her head: _Professor Quirrel’s more awkward than I am. Pretending to stutter so people don’t ask him questions…_

And then when they parted ways, her thoughts sent a very pleased surge through Voldemort.

_That’s very clever._

His child thought he was clever.

Well. Quirrel technically.

But still! 

That counted. 


	4. Chapter 4

Hogwarts was underwhelming. Hermione would never forgive herself if she allowed social pressure from her own snot-nosed peers to make her cry _one_ more time and wish that she hadn’t gone to Hogwarts.

Every House had its rules. It was just how Houses were. The highly esteemed House of Granger had many rules (most of them either dentist related or familiarized with the concept of Dungeons and Dragons). But, Hermione knew the rules for her own house, thank you. She’d rolled that twenty-sided die multiple times. No, the House whose rules she couldn’t even fathom were that of House Slytherin.

It was an unfortunate abode. She’d rather prefer learning about the chivalrous and never-ending heroics of House Gryffindor; or maybe, just maybe if Hermione would ever allow herself to be a nerd –she’d willingly put herself through learning about House Ravenclaw whose House animal wasn’t even a raven. Now that was just false presentation.

Hermione was one of those kids who’d been raised right and didn’t like to lie to authority figures. This was a bad habit that she would later break when an old man named Lord Voldemort taught her a few tricks in a muggle park not far from her house. But, as she wasn’t yet there – when Severus Snape asked her why she wasn’t in bed – she blurted out the truth: ‘’I, uh, have questions.’’

Most professors would good naturedly sigh and tell Hermione that all questions could be answered in the morning. Luckily for Hermione and all Slytherins under the famous lack of care of Severus Snape, they knew there wasn’t a single good bone in his body. Some even said that his funny bone was rotted from the inside out.

So, he reacted with a simple: ‘’He won’t speak with you. You’re too young. Good night.’’

‘’Can I try, at least, sir?’’ Hermione lacked answers. No one wanted to tell her things. Some jokes that the other students (read: purebloods) knew they’d snicker about behind her back and wouldn’t even point in her in the right direction to look for answers in the library (this part had actually gotten her even more mocking laughter, maybe even the cruellest laughter). Even though Draco’s parents and her parents were some strange friends he wouldn’t be seen with her outside and told her to know how to keep better company. Slytherins stuck with Slytherins, apparently. Hermione called them piss poor classmates and hissed things her mother would never approve of. Nobody knew parseltongue so it had become some sort of secret insult language for her to abuse.

‘’Carry on, then. After you make a fool of yourself, go straight to bed.’’ Snape disappeared in his own shadows like Batman. Hermione’s parents were big fans of comic books when they weren’t reading about the newest dental procedure. 

‘’Thank you! Sir, you won’t regret it.’’ Hermione grinned widely in thanks.

She vaguely remembered Professor Quirrel (the best professor, the only one that actually made sense in this insane asylum drenched in blood). He’d taught her that there was a certain someone that knew all the rules in Slytherin.

It came in every Slytherin's life when they just wanted to speak to the man, the myth, the legend himself: Salazar Slytherin. Unfortunately he died in a pogrom, so the next best thing was his portrait that only ever hissed at people and spoke things in latin that would leave Budealaire nauseated.

And even then, when one knew enough latin to attempt conversation – they would have to wait their turn because unlike every other House at Hogwarts: the Slytherin House had a carefully crafted hierarchy of power in place. Sevenths years could talk to Salazar Slytherin only, not per se due to their age and esteem, but the murder in their eyes preparing for NEWTs could bring forth.

Hermione Granger was a first year, but she had something nobody else did: the ability to speak Salazar Slytherin's native language. 

So, one evening when nobody was in the Common Room, Hermione Granger managed to conjure enough courage and moxy to step up to the Founder in front of her. He had a mean gaze that melted when he saw her. It melted from meannes to clear and vocal annoyance to be disturbed by what he could only assume to be a disturbed child.

Hermione waved.

The man balked at such irreverence. Salazar Slytherin’s hair was long, so Hermione's elongated. Salazar Slytherin had deep brown eyes so Hermione's deepened further. Salazar Slytherin hissed at her to stop that, so Hermione stopped.

Then he hissed, again, quite inquisitively: _''Speaker?''_

Hermione nodded, her face splitting in a big, elated smile. It made the man in the portrait uncomfortable. It seemed that children overall made him uncomfortable. What a man whose reaction at looking at children was this bad had doing making a school and teaching at one was beyond Hermione Granger. She didn’t pry, it seemed counterproductive to what she wanted to do. 

_''I am a speaker, yes.’’_ Then a small bow, because Hermione wasn’t raised in a barn and actually knew what she was doing: _‘’Long one, full of venom, how do you do?''_

 _''You speak it well. A **snake** has taught you.''_ Salazar Slytherin stated, but he almost allowed it to sound like praise.

Of course, she’d been taught by a snake. Hermione could imagine _no_ other way to learn parseltongue other than to speak it with Miss String and her friends. Other speakers (well, speaker – as she’d only met Harry) had no air around them, no understanding of the inflection, the meaning hidden behind every sound.

 _''Yes.''_ She nodded.

_''Speakers forget that snakes are the only true speakers. Some think that just because they can fabricate the sounds and understand them, it means that they can **speak**.’’_

Salazar Slytherin had a lot of thoughts on being a proper speaker and abiding by etiquette. He told Hermione, a sensible young girl, that she was the first in centuries to come to him with such highly practised etiquette. _‘’It seems to have fallen out of use. Every hiss is **not** a word.’’ _He all but snarled in offense. Someone must have really managed to piss him off. Hermione didn’t want any of that negative energy rubbing off on her, thank you.

Salazar Slytherin understood English, he would later tell Hermione, but he did not know how to speak it. He could learn –languages had always come easily to him, but it was the principal of the matter. Hermione, also, figured that this was about exhaustion with how quickly the English language changed. Sometimes around the 13th century he’d topped trying to keep up with the changes. Which was fair enough.

_‘’Of course, not to know rules is very …stupid.’’_

Salazar hissed into laughter. Hermione smiled.

She asked him for advice. _‘’There are rules here, long one, that are nowhere to be seen. People just expect me to know them.’’_

_‘’Did your grandfather not teach you?’’_

_‘’Grandfather?’’_ Dr. Phil Granger (also a dentist) was as muggle as they came. Just as much as Dr. Oswald (Oz for short) knew his way around a person’s mouth much better than he did navigating words and people’s mouths in any other context.

_‘’Tom Riddle. Or is he your **father**? In which case I have many a question about women and taking surnames in this day and age as the last time I heard women still took the man’s surname.’’_

_‘’Oh well, you don’t_ have to _.’’_

 _‘’Times_ are _changing, I see. Helga would love it. She always liked productive things.’’_

_‘’Can we go back to the rules bit, please? People are making fun of me.’’_

_‘’But you are a **metamorphagus** , hatchling.’’_

_‘’Aw, long one, I haven’t been called a hatchling since my first prey.’’_ A chicken, Hermione had once chased a chicken in the countryside and Miss String was convinced that Hermione was an adult. It felt good to be respected by a reptile.

Salazar Slytherin asked her why she didn’t know the rules. Hermione scoffed and was the only one gutsy enough to condescend Salazar Slytherin himself: _‘’Isn’t it obvious? It’s because I’m a **mudblood**.’’ _

Salazar Slytherin had a lot of things to say to Hermione Jean Granger then, but he didn’t. Because telling a child she was adopted was too harsh even by his standards. She obviously had no idea. _‘’Come talk to me when you’re a seventh year, I have something to tell you, short one.’’_

Hermione promised to come back when she was eighteen, but only if Salazar gave her a quick rundown of the tricks and tips a Slytherin ought to know.

He sighed and decided that it couldn’t hurt if he had a favourite.

Most of his advice amounted to: _‘’Hiss and almost every door will open.’’_

_‘’What do I do about the ones that won’t?’’_

_‘’Maximum bombarda works. Not even Godric can ward against those.’’_ He winked at her. The Founder of the Worst House (but hers, she wouldn’t forget that) winked at her. Hermione snickered.

All in all, Hermione learned quite a few things that night. She wished Salazar a good sleep, but he stopped her from scurrying down the stairs to her dormitory. _‘’Hatchling, are you **well**?’’_

 _‘’People could top teasing me and telling me I don’t belong in this house, but other than that I’m fine.’’_

His face was oddly scrunched up, as if he still contemplated what the correct course of action was. Whether to withhold information from what Hermione or not. Finally he asked, a bit more specifically: _‘’These **muggles-‘’**_

 _‘’I know you got killed by them and I’m sorry.’’_ Hermione had done her research before going to speak to her House’s Founder. It was the polite thing to do. How one might prepare before interviewing _. ‘’But my parents are really good people and they love me.’’_

 _‘’Of course.’’_ Uncomfortably he said and dismissed her to bed. But then he stopped her again. Things worked in threes with this man, apparently. _‘’Say hello to Helga for me. She hasn’t been called that in centuries, I assume, so do remind her that she is a guardian of the school, would you…The other one made her do nefarious things.’’_

 _‘’Helga **Hufflepuff**?’’ _Hermione couldn’t fathom trying to break into the Hufflepuff Common Room to tell Helga Hufflepuff’s portrait any of these things.

Salazar Slytherin’s face was priceless. _‘’No,’’_ he all but screamed in horror, ‘’ _Helga, my sweet **egg**.’’_

Ah, the Basilisk. Hermione could do that.

Finally, she went to her dorms. And then she slept like a little baby with knowledge that nobody other than her was privy to. Her dreams were the sweetest they’d ever been. When she woke up and went down to the Common Room, Salazar Slytheirn’s portrait was as aloof as ever and looked like he was ready to bite hands and tear apart anyone that dared speak to him. Ah, good ol Sal. Wait, no that was terrible. Hermione would think of a better name for him.

Draco Malfoy tried telling her something, but Hermione hissed in utter exasperation: _‘’I wish you’d hit a wall and shut up, Malfoy.’’_ and a wall sprung up from the dungeon floor and hit him straight in the face.

Hogwarts knew parseltongue. That was the most important thing that Hermione Granger had learned from Sweet Salazar. She cracked her knuckles and nodded.

Oh, this _changed_ things.

* * *

Narcissa and Lucius were going to the Grangers. They’d been invited to their dungeon night. How they were to even bloody interpret this failed to crystallize itself to them. Lucius thought that it was a proper dungeon for torture and extracting information from spies.

Abraxas (and he was always quick to intervene in every conversation Narcissa and Lucius had in a public spot) thought that it was a dungeon a la France – aka the land where only consenting adults went to when nothing else seemed to be working and the novelty may save their marrage.

Antoinette (Abraxas’ wife) said that she hardly believed the Grangers would invite people they vaguely knew to such an endeavour and that she agreed with Lucius. ‘’Maybe they _will_ steal your magic?’’

Only Narcissa didn’t think any of these things were true. The Drs. Granger looked positively tame and incapable of murdering two influential purebloods. For goodness’ sake, the logistics made absolutely no sense. How would they even carry their bodies without any levitation charms? Lucius weighed a ton, she was certain. Dead bodies even more. Probably?

‘’Do dead bodies weigh more than alive ones?’’

‘’I think so?’’

‘’Oui?’’

‘’Why would ask this, Cissa?’’

In an odd sort of way she missed Bella – that woman always knew the answers to these types of things. Well, it wasn’t odd, she’d just trained herself to believe it was odd. Bella was her own sister. A protector before Lucius had volunteered for the position. Narcissa didn’t want to think about how she would feel about knowing Cissa was friends with muggles.

‘’In a strange sort of way, I do think it’s best if she’s in Azkaban.’’

‘’Who?’’

‘’Alecto Carrow.’’

‘’Oh that **_bitch_** still owes me two thousand galleons.’’

‘’Abraxas!’’

‘ _’Quoi_ , femme?’’

Narcissa pulled Lucius out of his parents’ way and whispered: ‘’They mentioned dragons in their dungeon and to bring wine.’’ She raised up a bottle of red wine. It was perfect for a dungeon.

‘’Where would they possibly fit dragons in their tiny muggle dungeon?’’

‘’They do have a basement, dear.’’

‘’I know, and I also know that a dragon is _large_.’’

Some screaming later, when Antoinette and Abraxas had been thrown back in the loop, the Lady Malfoy mused aloud, careful not to offend any party. ‘’I think it’s certainly a ritual that you’re going to have to succumb to, my dear son – and Narcissa.’’ Narcissa and Antoinette weren’t friends, nor did they like each other by any means, but they both loved Lucius in their own special and macabre way and it was enough. Respect went a longer way than proper acceptance did.

Bella was liked by Lady Lestrange and what good did it do her? She was in _Azkaban_.

Abraxas summoned Dobby and asked for French fries. He had a craving for food that was decidedly not French.

Lucius’ face was screwed up in a terrified sort of look. He truly did not want to go to his end this fine night. His estranged little niece be damned. Narcissa had to see that much, right? Right? The panic began to set in.

‘’We are armed, Lucius.’’ Narcissa waved her wand and then pointed to his. Lucius clutched it for dear life. ‘’Two muggles cannot apprehend us. Plus, we’ll get them drunk.’’

‘’Yes, right. Of course. I love you, Cissa.’’

‘’I love you, too, Lucius.’’

Lucius glanced over to Abraxas Malfoy and asked him if he could predict the evening’s activities and how they would go. Abraxas was an arithmancy master. He could do that and more, but he preferred to watch his son squirm for dear life.

Finally he took out a piece of parchment and began to scribble down some numbers which he interpreted as being a bad omen. ‘’You will be humiliated, but you will surprisingly love every bit of it. Narcissa’s wine choice will be lauded.’’ Narcissa inclined her head in thanks.

Lucius looked towards his mother and proceeded to hug her as if he was going to die tonight.

‘’Lucius, mon fils, je t’aime – but, _please,_ grow up.’’

The Drs. Granger turned out to have a sadistic streak, as the dungeon in their basement was a game room where they played a game of Dungeons and Dragons. Narcissa rather wished for that magic stealing ritual.

Dr. Granger was wearing an obviously muggle created robe to appear mysterious as she introduced them to the game to end all games: ‘’Now, everybody roll for initiative!’’

Narcissa rolled what was called a ‘nat’ twenty.

Lucius rolled a one and proceeded to have the best worst game night of his life.

The Drs. Grangers laughed maniacally in sync.

Still, the more Narcissa got to know them and the more they all drank her impeccable wine – she realised that Hermione was far better adjusted than she would have been had her parents been the people to raise her. It was a… tragic thought. One that she quickly stifled with another series of natural twenties. She seemed incapable of rolling anything else.

‘’Is this any good?’’

Apparently it was.

Lucius’ hair was dreadful and sticking in directions that hair shouldn’t be sticking out of. He was leaning towards Dr. Granger and begging him to roll his dice for him.

‘’If I get to see your wand.’’

Lucius slurred the next words: ‘’Doctor, I’ll let you see whichever wand you like if you help me take Narcissa down.’’ Accusingly he pointed a finger at her. ‘’Shame on you!’’

Narcissa laughed and even allowed herself to conspiratorially rub her hands together before declaring her next big hit. She was, in Dr. Granger’s DM experienced words, the greatest Bard to ever play any of her dungeons.

* * *

Hermione came up to Professor Quirrel after class and asked him if he was okay. He seemed incredibly stressed. Like his entire life depended on finding some hidden rock in a school full of annoying children.

‘’Are you okay, sir?’’

‘’Haven’t you got class to go to, Miss Granger?’’ Professor Quirrel always cared for Hermione’s education. It wasn’t at all an attempt to cut their tiring conversations short.

‘’I have a free period.’’

This was something all of the professors at Hogwarts would come to dread hearing come out of Hermione Granger’s mouth. They’d rather allow Lord Voldemort’s name be spoken aloud again to this horror.

Hermione swayed back and forth on the balls of her feet, keeping her arms folded neatly behind her back. ‘’I talked to Professor Slytherin.’’

‘’Oh?’’ Quirrel leaned forward, deciding that this was worth hearing about. His honoured guest told him to keep an ear out for a name. A name that would help them solve _everything_. There were secrets in Hogwarts that no amount of hissing or maximum bombarda could solve.

‘’He was kind of cool in that aloof way of his, I guess. I learned that Hogwarts responds to parseltongue.’’

These were not new things. Lord Voldemort knew these. He needed a name.

‘’Have you thought of visiting that snake of yours?’’

‘’Well, she isn’t _mine_. She belongs to the school.’’

She was more Hermione’s than she was anyone else’s.

‘’How’d you name her again?’’

‘’Matilda, though I’m thinking of changing it back to her first name.’’

Quirrel felt an ungodly painful headache which signalled him to follow this up if he desired to live.

‘’And what might t-that be?’’

‘’Professor Slytherin told me it was between us two.’’

‘’Of course, t-that’s fair –‘’ the headache was splitting his head open, ‘’how do you feel ab-bout telling me for extra credit?’’ The headache tripled to tell him this was absolutely terrible and that he should never try to manipulate people.

It was around the fourth hammer-smash to his head that Quirrel couldn’t remember how he’d gotten Hermione to take him back to the chamber, well past the giant snake that still terrified him, and in front of a wall that looked like a sealed door. It had snake engravings everywhere.

‘’My friend the Basilisk told me about it.’’

The headache eased off.

‘’It’s apparently a door that can take you anywhere you want in Hogwarts, designed by Salazar Slytherin himself.’’ Hermione condescended to a Slytherin again in two days, ‘’Of course, it’s password protected.’’

When she turned to her professor she saw that his eyes were red. Ah, all right. This sort of conversation. The kind without stuttering. The kind that made no sense, but gave off the feeling that something was wrong.

 _‘’Long one,’’_ Hermione addressed the Basilisk. She lifted her head and called back, asking if Hermione needed her.

 _‘’Beatrice, stay down. The hatchling is teasing you.’’_ Professor Quirrel hissed. The Basilisk did the snake equivalent of shrugging and going back to sleep.

‘’I am **_not_** a hatchling.’’ Hermione didn’t want to dissect the meaning of this just yet, because she was sure that Professor Quirrel wasn’t a parselmouth. And why would he keep such a thing a secret anyway? It didn’t make any proper sense.

‘’You are what I tell you to be, child.’’ The voice was Quirrel’s, but the words were not. ‘’Now,’’ the voice turned lilting, amused even, ‘’I do apologize for the rough words I may have scared you a bit. A tiny bit, because you’re very scary yourself. Goodness, the utter fear on people’s faces whenever you ask a question –you should really see it.’’ He began to pace, this can’t be professor Quirrel guy, using Quirrel’s body.

‘’I do, I just choose to ignore it.’’

He turned to Hermione from his pacing and gleefully whispered: ‘’Sadistic.’’ He even wore one of those smiles that would look good on good looking people, but not Professor Quirrel, whose face was one drunk driver away from road kill.

‘’I have a basilisk that listens to me.’’

‘’Do _not_ challenge me on who she will listen to better. I will feed her your skin if you do not comply.’’

Hermione shuddered. ‘’What did you do with Professor Quirrel?’’

The man who wouldn’t give Hermione his name tapped on the door with the snake engravings. It was old. It was so mysterious it hadn’t even landed in the first issue of _Hogwarts: A History_. ‘’Activate it for me. I have a rock to collect.’’

‘’What type of rock is it?’’

‘’Is this the part where you reveal that rocks and sediments are your secret passion?’’

‘’It’s _one_ of my secret passions, thank you.’’ Hermione read a lot.

‘’I have a lot to say to that, but I am on a tight schedule.’’ He grabbed hold of Hermione and roughly pulled her towards the door, telling her to activate it.

‘’Why?’’

‘’I’m sick. I need to get better. Don't you want to help me get better?’’ And then the most fake cough followed. 

‘’Call a Healer.’’

‘’The rock is magic. Stone. It’s actually called a stone.’’

‘’There isn’t really a profound difference.’’

‘’Child, do not test me.’’

‘’Do not threaten me then!’’

The man took his wand out and aimed it at Hermione. ‘’I will scour your mind until you are left on this floor crying for your parents and their absurd, useless knowledge hoarding ways. Legilimency hurts if it isn’t consensual, you know.’’

‘’All things hurt if they aren’t consensual, my mother says.’’

‘’Your mother’s a wise woman, I shall give her that.’’

Push came to shove and Hermione found out that Albus Dumbledore was willing to let a man who needed a stone to **_live_** go and die a painful death, or live a painfully parasitic life.

‘’You must have really done something to make him hate you.’’

‘’Come here, Hermione.’’ Hermione leaned forward so the man could whisper. ‘’Albus Dumbledore is a prick.’’

‘’I’m twelve.’’

‘’I’ve heard worse by five. You are too sheltered.’’

Another round of threatening came to a pass and Hermione was promised a lot of money that would be wired to her account. She wanted to go to Cambridge. Or Oxford. Or maybe even Harvard. Those tuition fees couldn’t be paid with magic.

‘’You could imperius the muggles handling the finances – but I do know a blond who has the money.’’

‘’Who _are_ you?’’

‘’A man who really wants to make you a very rich lady.’’

‘’Fine, don’t tell me things. Helga doesn’t want to eat you so you can’t be _all that_ bad.’’

‘’Helga?’’ The man sounded incredibly exhausted. ‘’I couldn’t guess fucking **_Helga_**.’’

‘’Well to be fair, _Helga_ doesn’t even remember her own name so she couldn’t confirm it even if you had guessed.’’

The door activated. It spat both Hermione and whatever else came accompanied with Professor Quirrel’s physical form into a room with a mirror.

At that point if the three smartest people in the room couldn’t figure out how to get the stone, there was something severely wrong with the universe.

* * *

Not long after that three things happened:

  1. Professor Quirrel quit because of harassment he’d been subjected to by Severus Snape. Said Snape was appointed DADA professor for the end of the year.
  2. Hermione realised that parseltongue could be taught and set forth to spread the knowledge. Ron was a quick learner. He already knew how to say ‘open’ and ‘please, I want to live’
  3. A letter from Dr. Granger arrived to Hogwarts.



The intricate and messy handwriting of her mother detailed the following: utter disbelief at the state of Hermione’s savings account.

Hermione learned how to lie when so much money was at stake. Her eyes were going to swallow her own head when she’d read the amount.

Even though it was a terrible lie, Hermione wrote down that she’d earned that amount by tutoring her very posh classmates.

Narcissa Malfoy taught Dr. Granger how to send a howler, because one came the day after: ‘’HOW POSH IS THIS SCHOOL, HERMIONE?!’’

All in all.

Hermione felt like she’d done something terrible, but as Professor Slytherin had taught her that night: self-preservation was the only way to live.

‘’Wait are you rich now?’’ Pansy Parkinson finally deigned to speak to Hermione.

‘’I _guess_.’’ Hermione finished her muffin. 

‘’Oh, well, that’s better. Would you like to learn make up spells with Daphne and I?’’

‘’I’m still a mudblood.’’ Hermione grabbed her second muffin.

‘’Yes, but you’re rich so it’s _different_.’’

Hermione had no hope for any of these people. She remembered what she’d been taught about networking and agreed. These purebloods were hopeless, but it didn’t mean she couldn’t use it to her advantage.


	5. Chapter 5

Lord Voldemort valued loyalty, as long as he didn't need to be loyal back. Someone once dared to call this lifestyle a side-effect of Freud level trust issues. Whether this was true or not wasn't important. What was important was getting to Malfoy Manor in one piece and managing to get somebody competent to help out. Hopefully he would see Abraxas Malfoy.

Not Lucius, not Narcissa, not Antoinette.

No, the only person Voldemort could always count on was Abraxas Malfoy. 

It was painful and nerve-wracking to get to said Manor whilst holding the Philosopher's Stone in his pocket. He felt unnerved and wondered if Dumbledore would intercept him around every corner.

The tall, evergreen and beautifully twisting trees of the Malfoy estate greeted him (them, he was still with Quirrel). It was impeccably kept and groomed with spells and wards that would make anyone else cry in shame. Shrubs made to look like peacocks lined the sides, between them a stone paved path leading up to a Manor that was infamous. 

Voldemort instructed Quirrel not to show any fear, as the Malfoy Family could sense it like bloodhounds could sense blood. 

One of the key traits of the Malfoy estate was that the warder (Abraxas) had made unbeatable wards that allowed anyone entry; a thief could waltz into the estate, a gardener could come whenever, an auror was always welcome to see that the Malfoys were willing to cooperate, and the Death Eaters needn't be invited in. 

So, a nobody like Professor Quirrel could just pop by for a visit unannounced. 

The tricky part was leaving. Only those who were allowed to leave  _ could  _ leave. And nobody wanted to know what befell them if they insulted the Malfoy Family. Leaving would be the least of their problems then. 

Voldemort, personally, thought that there wasn’t a single intimidating bone in Abraxas’ body. He was like a giant dog that wagged its tail constantly. 

Quirrel, meanwhile, was paralysed with fear in front of the front door. He’d  _ broken  _ into the  _ Malfoy Estate.  _ That just wasn’t done. Nobody did that. Nobody that wanted to live did that. 

A headache screamed at him. He knocked. It resounded off of the walls and could be heard splintering into different rooms and chambers of the Manor, switching from wing to wing, letting everyone know that there was someone at their door. 

‘’DOBBY!’’

‘’Abraxas, Dobby is with Antoinette in France, remember?’’

‘’THAT WOMAN  _ NEVER  _ ASKS! I own that elf! Me!’’

‘’You’re the closest to the door, Abraxas, can’t you open it?’’

‘’LUCIUS!’’

‘’Lucius is in France, too.’’

‘’Narcissa,  _ you  _ open it.’’

In a faux-scandalized voice: ‘’A woman opening the door? What will the  _ thieves  _ say...’’

‘’Mostly they beg for their lives before I feed them to my peacocks, but let’s not get into that now. It is daytime, however. We are going to be subjected to the polite company of what I can only assume to be a door to door salesman. Salesperson, I caught a few witches coming to me with make up products one time. That coconut shampoo is mine.’’

‘’Is it in the big bathroom or the one near the master bedroom?’’

‘’It’s in the big bathroom.’’

‘’Then it’s fair game.’’

Abraxas sputtered. ‘’I am the Head of this family, daughter-in-law. Obey me.’’

‘’When you stop being insulted if I use your shampoo, maybe I will.’’

Quirrel looked to the wide open window nearby the front door and blushed because he was privy to the entire conversation. There was a tinge of a headache crawling in the back of his mind and spreading to his frontal lobe. 

He knocked vigorously then, ready to get this over with. 

The door swung open and Abraxas Malfoy made a sight of debauchery. ‘’Who are you, Turban boy?’’

‘’Um -’’

‘’Um?’’ For a brief second there was panic. ‘’Um for Umbridge?’’

Quirrel shook his head no. Abraxas clutched at his chest where he imagined his pearls would be if he owned any and heaved a sigh in relief.

‘’I cannot handle such garishly dressed people,’’ said a man who was dressed in a peacock inspired robe, with sleeves made out of discarded feathers. 

He invited Quirrel in, sensing no immediate threat. 

Narcissa looked at him and said, in recognition: ‘’You teach Draco.’’

‘’Oh does he?’’ Abraxas yawned, having gotten up recently. He had massive eye bags under his eyes that followed by a massive hangover. Antoinette had gone to France and left him be; that was worth celebrating. Quickly he pivoted on his heel (and those dragon scale boots cost far more than Quirrel would make in a lifetime), and pointed a varnished finger at the professor: ‘’If that boy’s done anything let his father deal with it. Narcissa and I are  _ innocents _ , I tell you. It’s all his father’s fault.’’

Quirrel sheepishly laughed and gulped after an uncomfortable moment passed. ‘’I have the Dark Lord.’’

Narcissa pretended to faint so she could avoid this conversation. Abraxas called for Dobby again because he needed a drink, realised why that wouldn’t work, and shouted an expletive in front of a professor. 

Voldemort told Quirrel that things were going just as he expected them to. 

Another elf whose name Abraxas didn’t know came and gave him a glass of sparkling water and a glass of white wine. He weighed the two glasses and mixed them, whilst explaining in perfect detail that the Malfoy Family had nothing to do with that defeated and forever unwelcome Lord Voldemort and that the Ministry had cleared them and that that vase right next to him cost more than Quirrel could make in years and won’t he be a dear and take it off their hands. 

Once satisfied with his mixture, Abraxas Malfoy began to drink anew. He accusingly pointed at Quirrel. ‘’You are here to rile me up. Well, we have complied with the Ministry’s demands; we have allowed the aurors to ransack our place of residence; and we have given them  _ so  _ much gold -- shame, ‘’ Abraxas Malfoy thought about throwing his drink at Quirrel’s turban, but thought better of it, ‘’shame on you for coming here with such fallacies.’’ 

A headache miraculously gave him relevant information that would speed this process along. ‘’He told me to tell you that he wants you to say hello to  _ Abbie Mallory _ .’’

‘’Oh fuck.’’ Abraxas choked on his drink. ‘’Fuck. Cissa, come back here he’s really back and sent us a professor. Spending time with academic citizens will no doubt have instilled in him thoughts, dear Narcissa - and we all know how much I detest people who think citing papers is  **_fun_ ** .’’

Quirrel waited patiently, fiddling with his thumbs out of sheer nerve-wracking anxiety. 

Abraxas grabbed hold of the turban and asked: ‘’What’s under the turban?’’

From the floor and her A-grade fainting act, Narcissa berated: ‘’Abraxas, you cannot ask people that. Be culturally sensitive. It isn’t as if he is hiding the  _ Dark Lord _ in there.’’

‘’I, well -’’ Quirrel attempted to break it to them gently that he was doing just that. 

It was Narcissa Malfoy that caught on first. Then she laughed, ladylike poise be damned. She even laughed until she cried. A woman who was somewhat of a sister-in-law to the man allowed herself many liberties. Laughing her arse off at his predicament was one of them. 

Abraxas wasn’t far behind with the laughter. He lunged for Quirrel and unravelled the turban covering post haste. The sight he was met with drew out another high pitched laugh. It wasn’t unlike a peacock’s caw. 

Said near-cawing actually attracted peacocks that were all Abraxas’ familiars. They cawed and circled Quirrel. 

‘’Tom,’’ Doubling over in pain from all of the laughing, Abraxas wheezed: ‘’Tom, is that  _ really  _ you?’’

‘’Hello, Abraxas.’’

Abraxas laughed another round. He collapsed near the peafowls and they pecked at him in worry. 

Narcissa was asked to see him. She tried to reign her reaction in, but seeing where her Lord was painted a few uncouth pictures in her mind and she bit her tongue hard to stop herself. ‘’Have you met Delphini? She’s called Hermione now.’’

‘’Yes.’’ Their Lord spoke to Abraxas, ‘’I actually need to ask a favour from you. It’s a lot.’’

‘’You need money?’’ Abraxas always knew what people meant when they asked for favours from him. 

Flippantly, Voldemort said: ‘’Just enough to get a child through Harvard.’’

‘’Oh that’s nothing for me.’

‘’R-really?’’ Quirrel blurted out.

Abraxas forced himself to his feet, neared the body with two faces and turned said body around so he could speak with the mouth that ate. ‘’I count cards, professor. And I am an Arithmancy genius.’’ Patronizingly he patted Quirrel’s cheek and smiled. ‘’You can connect the dots, I’m sure.’’

‘’You never lose.’’

‘’Bingo!’’

‘’Pardon?’’ Quirrel jumped at the booming voice so close to his ear. 

‘’He loses  _ only  _ in Bingo.’’ Narcissa explained. Her voice sounded tired from all of the laughter. She wiped stray tears in her black eyes. 

‘’Since 1985 I haven’t been allowed in Las Vegas, did you know? Well, of course you didn’t, dear Tom - you’ve been on the back of a sad man’s head! ’’

Narcissa let out another sound that couldn’t be attributed to a human being. 

‘’I have the Philosopher’s Stone.’’

‘’Good, good.’’

‘’Abraxas.’’

Abraxas turned the man around so he could speak with the Dark Lord. ‘’This is the most fun I’ve had in decades, mon chou. It really is.’’

‘’The  _ ritual _ , Abraxas.’’

‘’Ah, right. Of course. I’ll get right to it.’’

‘’Where’s Lucius?’’

‘’He’s absconded with his mother to the French Alps.’’

‘’You have raised him well.’’

‘’Shut up, I’m helping you get a body. Do not insult my lack of parenting skills.’’

‘’Get me that money, my daughter’s waiting on it.’’

‘’How sweet. You’re making your absence up by giving her a post-Hogwarts education.’’ A pause, as Abraxas deliberated, ‘’It is rather in character with you. Just do not live vicariously through her. I tried that with Lucius and now I hate him.’’

‘’Duly noted.’’ 

* * *

Hermione got invited to visit Tonks and Mr. and Mrs. Tonks. It got a little confusing, she wouldn’t lie. It would be much easier to call them Andromeda and Ted and Tonks. But wasn’t that a little impertinent? 

Her parents were out doing surgery and had asked Hermione to find herself a place to stay for a day. Tonks was very keen on inviting her over. She considered Hermione her young apprentice in all things chaotic. Hermione just wanted to talk to someone whose appearance changed, too. She really didn’t want to know how her being a metamorphagus would develop whilst in puberty. 

Tonks’ hair was pink. Mrs. Tonks’ hair was the same shade of brown as Hermione’s, or at least it was until Hermione saw Mr. Tonks’ red hair and her hair went ginger. She outstretched her hand to politely shake it with all in attendance, all while introducing herself in a clear and poignant voice that befitted a girl that could and probably would go to Harvard when all of this Hogwarts business was finished. ‘’Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Tonks, my name is Hermione Granger. Thank you for having me over.’’

Andromeda, without missing a beat, asked her daughter why she couldn’t be this polite. 

‘’You raised me to abhor manners because of your own upbringing.’’

‘’It is true honey.’’ Ted Tonks came in defence of his daughter’s reasoning. 

Andromeda conceded that. She was a rebel rouser. 

Ted invited Hermione in and asked her if she’d like anything to eat. They were just about to have lunch. Hermione said that she would love to. And then added  _ another  _ thank you. 

Andromeda was having flashbacks to Narcissa Black, her youngest and most disgustingly saccharine sister. 

‘’Have you met the Malfoys?’’ 

‘’Only Draco. His parents and my parents are friends, but I haven’t yet met them.’’ Hermione said as she was taking a seat next to Tonks, who was apologetically looking at her for this grilling.

‘’Your muggle parents… and the Malfoys are friends?’’ Andromeda was surprised, but ultimately it made sense. Narcssia did always like Bellatrix more than her, so it stood as normal for her to do anything to keep an eye out on her favourite niece. A niece she’d actually bothered to meet. 

Ted served them soup first. He said that this was his specialty. ‘’Took me ten minutes to make it.’’

‘’If I ever make a single thing from scratch I’ll scratch my own eyes out.’’ Andromeda and Ted Tonks weren’t the best cooks. But they made up for it with their sense of humour. 

Hermione giggled at the joke. Tonks groaned and rolled her eyes, she’d heard this joke many, many times before. 

‘’So, how was your first year at Hogwarts?’’ Andromeda asked. She’d already been sent a report from Pomona Sprout detailing the horror Nympahdora had wrought upon the school this year. Now that her only child was out of Hogwarts, Andromeda would miss feeling utterly mortified. Ah, the throes of having grown up children.

‘’Gred and Feorge and I attacked the Slytherins and charmed their robes pink for a whole day.’’

‘’Then we, the ever angry Slytherins, retaliated by getting these three to ribbit like frogs for a week. Really intense spellwork to make it durable, we even got the Head Girl to help us.’’ 

‘’Ron and Harry - that’s Harry Potter, mum, the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived - joined up with us to get back at the Slytherins -’’

‘’Get back?’’ Andromeda mouthed to her husband Ted. The man shrugged. ‘’Getting back at someone means that  _ they  _ started it, Nymphadora.’’

‘’It’s  _ Tonks _ .’’ Tonks’ hair was hellish red. ‘’Nymphadora is a terrible name.’’

‘’It really is.’’ Ted whispered under his breath. Andromeda needed to only look at him for a very long, measured time for him to sheepishly smile, but ultimately decided not to back down. 

‘’Even Hermione thinks it’s odd.’’ Tonks outed Hermione’s opinion. 

Andromeda looked at Hermione then. Hermione felt how all kids who were over at a friend’s house felt like when the friend’s mother asked them something that had no reasonable way to be asked of a friend of one’s child. ‘’What do you think, Hermione?’’

Hermione was really too busy looking at her eyes. They were so dark one might even call them black. The shape of them, too, was somehow familiar. She tilted her head to the side like an owl and blinked. 

* * *

A black haired woman with black eyes cooed. There were planets floating above them. 

* * *

Hermione blinked. ‘’Did you ever have black hair?’’

Andromeda near-blanched: ‘’No.’’

‘’Right, for a moment you reminded me of someone.’’ Hermione drank her soup.

Tonks continued telling her parents all of the pranks she’d pulled with Hermione. ‘’She looked like professor Minerva for a full hour. That’s a lot for a kid her age.’’

‘’Good job.’’ Ted praised. ‘’Stick it to the staff. Andy and I used to cause havoc.’’

Tonks’ spoon clattered against the empty plate. Her eyes were very wide and curious as she leaned forward and placed her elbows on the table. ‘’Really? You always told me you two were the most well-behaved students of your generation.’’

‘’Yeah, we lied.’’

‘’We’re your parents, of course we  _ lied _ . How else would we have managed to have the upper hand and the moral high ground?’’

Hermione enjoyed this next bit. 

Tonks gasped in outrage. ‘’You mean to say you were actually prankster like me?’’

‘’Well, not like  _ you _ . We actually had really high standards as to what made a prank.’’

‘’Andy, honey, come on. I think her pranks are neat.’’

‘’They’re juvenile. Fred and George have it in them, I’ve gathered from your stories, but you’re really more of a destructive force, sweetheart.’’ 

‘’I’ll take it.’’ Tonks shrugged and grabbed hold of a bread slice to gnaw on. Ted noted everyone’s empty plates and went to fetch them the main course.

After their meal ended and Andromeda was outed as being the most heinous student ever to come to Hogwarts. ‘’Being a Black had its up sides. They couldn’t expell me because my family would have reigned thunderously at the administration.’’

‘’What was your favourite subject?’’ Hermione asked just as fast as Tonks asked: ‘’What was your best prank?’’

‘’I jinxed my older sister when she was a seventh year. All of her hair fell apart. It was right before the Yule ball.’’ Andromeda laughed evilly. Then to answer Hermione’s question: ‘’I loved Charms.’’

‘’Wow, mum, that’s a bit hardcore, don’t you think?’’

‘’It grew back in a  _ week _ . She had to massage potions on her scalp. As if I would maim my own sister without her giving me a good reason.’’

‘’Pranks are a lot more cruel than I first figured.’’ Hermione wasn’t a big fan of pranks. Though, it was better to keep company with pranksters than to be on their bad side, this she had learned. 

* * *

Lord Voldemort was in his own body, but because he’d not been in a body of his own for a good ten years, a fever struck him. He was miserably lying in a bed with linen that was more expensive than what passed for an organ at the black market these days. 

‘’I feel disgusting.’’

‘’Are you up for soup?’’ Abraxas was in an awfully chipper mood, which made Voldemort wish he was in a state well enough to attack him. However, he was in a well enough state to realise that biting the hand that fed him would be improper. 

‘’Where am I ?’’ This didn’t look like the room he usually had in Malfoy Manor. He closed his eyes. All of those migraines he’d sent Quirrel had returned to him tenfold harder. The ceiling spun. His eyes bloody spun inside his own eye sockets, he was convinced.

Nausea overwhelmed him and what little strength he did have helped him keel over to the side of the bed to throw up in a strategically placed bucket. The wrenching noises were so undignified. His throat hurt. His head was splitting him open like a pomegranate in autumn. 

‘’I am in pain.’’ 

‘’Well, I’d offer to give you something for it - gods only know how much substances I’ve consumed over the years, but you usually like to tough it out on your own.’’

‘’That was before I was old and had a child and was a wraith for ten years.’’

‘’I’ll get you some morphine. DOBBY!’’

Another elf appeared in his stead: ‘’Master Abraxas, Dobby is with Master Lucius and Mistress Antoinette.’’

‘’I keep forgetting that.’’

Voldemort lurched again. 

‘’While you’re here do go clean that bucket, would you?’’

‘’Right away, Master Abraxas.’’

‘’Oh and do find my pill box, I want to see what I have there.’’

‘’Yes, Master. Of course, Master.’’

‘’I quit.’’

Abraxas turned back to Voldemort. ‘’You say this every time you’re sick.’’

‘’I quit everything.’’ Spittle dangled. Voldemort swallowed down bile and hated himself for the taste it left in his mouth. He felt like crying. Existence was dreadful. ‘’I  **_quit_ ** .’’ 

The bed dipped as Abraxas sat next to him. ‘’Shush.’’ Slowly he rubbed his back in circles. ‘’This’ll pass. For a man who’s so sensitive to Dark Magic, you sure do it often.’’

‘’Seven is the most magical number.’’

‘’So is three, but you wouldn’t stop then.’’

‘’And then I fell into a coma after the fourth one.’’

‘’I swear to Merlin and that entire bunch he was friends with, I thought you’d well and truly died. You were asleep for a  _ full  _ week. ’’

‘’Why aren’t I asleep for a full week now?’’

‘’Because this isn’t horcrux related?’’

‘’Ugh.’’

‘’Do you want me to hold you?’’

‘’How dare you  _ presume  _ your place.’’

Abraxas drew him in a hug. Voldemort allowed it. A real no would have just been a no. 

‘’How do you smell so nice?’’

‘’I actually started using this new shampoo recently.’’

‘’You always smell so nice.’’ His voice was drowsy. Abraxas placed a palm against his forehead. It was scorching. 

‘’Listen, if your fever doesn’t break soon I’m going to have to slug you in a bath full of ice, just be prepared mentally for that.’’ No witty quip came as a response. Abraxas tried shaking Voldemort, but the man had fallen asleep on him. 

* * *

Hermione saw photographs of Andromeda and Ted’s wedding, curious to see how a mage-muggle wedding looked like. Andromeda didn’t wear a wedding dress, but what looked to be a very old and traditional robe with runes sewn in the seams. 

‘’My mother’s wedding robes. Growing up she always told me I would get married wearing them. When she disowned me, as a parting gift to her I took them with me and got married to a muggleborn.’’ 

‘’That’s so good.’’ Tonks high-fived her mum. 

‘’My Andy.’’ Ted kissed Andromeda. 

Hermione flipped through the album gently. This was a fun day. Her parents would come home soon and call for the Tonks to bring Hermione back. She’d apparated side-along! It was nauseating. Ted reassured her that it was less ill-inducing when done alone. 

There was a small photograph at the back of the album. This one moved, so it was obviously a magical photograph. Three little girls were posing like prim ladies. Until a moment came that they couldn’t put up with the lie and they began to elbow each other very hard. The black haired one started it first, elbowing the brown haired girl - and then the smallest girl (that was blonde) kicked the black haired girl in the knee. 

‘’I wouldn’t wish having siblings even on my worst enemies. There  _ is  _ a reason all three of us only had one child.’’ Andromeda said, having caught Hermione staring at it. 

Hermione nodded, but her hair curled and darkened like the eldest girl’s in the photograph. 

* * *

When Dr. Granger met up with Hermione out front she thanked Ted Tonks for taking Hermione up for the day. 

‘’Don’t mention it. She was an utter delight. It was honestly new for us to have someone polite around for a change.’’ He laughed then, the wisecracker that he was. 

Dr. Granger thought about letting Hermione have sweets because of this. It was always good to hear that your child acted politely in strange company. 

With a crack, Ted disapparated and nearly gave Dr. Granger a heart attack. 

Mother and daughter walked to their home. There was a mirror right next to the front door on the inside so Hermione could look at herself and see if she looked ready for public scrutiny. Once she’d gone outside with rainbow coloured hair with the ends made out of small snake heads. The children were traumatized and the Drs. had to lie and say it was a really expensive prop wig. So, the mirror had to be put there for the benefit of all. 

‘’Your eyes are black, honey.’’

‘’Right.’’ Hermione stood at the mirror and concentrated hard. The black curls disappeared and returned to the bushy brunette mess her hair was known for. Her eyes shifted for a moment from black to red, but she pushed them to brown after. Whoever that man was, Hermione hoped she was finished with him and any business he may have had with her. It felt really enticing to have a secret. Something nobody knew about. Magic coursed through her hair and it curled again. Her eyes were darker than usual. Hermione huffed. 

Her mum asked her if anything was wrong. 

‘’Nothing. My magic’s just a bit stubborn.’’

Hermione’s hair went copper, then vermillion, then green, then a very dark brown that she’d also seen somewhere but couldn’t place. But the black returned and the slight curls did, too. Unapologetically. She bared her teeth in an angry snarl and they, at least, remained perfect as always. 

‘’Mum,’’ Hermione remembered the woman with the same hair like hers was now, ‘’did we ever have a nanny with black hair?’’

‘’I don’t remember, dear, we got blacklisted when you were fairly young. And there were so many nannies...’’ The horror in her voice couldn’t be mistaken. 

That was it. Hermione grabbed a hold of her hair and willed it brown. The woman was probably a nanny. The Drs. Grangers had lots while Hermione was growing up. Not many could keep up with a child who could make sharp things float. 

* * *

‘’Quirrel was fine. He served his purpose. Did you give him money? I promised him money.’’

‘’I gave him money, do not worry.’’

‘’Good.’’

‘’He reminds me a bit of Avery.’’ Abraxas mused aloud. ‘’Remember Avery from school? He used to follow you around everywhere.’’

‘’Thankfully he didn’t follow me for a snog in the girl’s lavatory otherwise I’d have him with me here and not you.’’

‘’The Avery Townhome is dreadfully small compared to Malfoy Manor, yes. You would have been miserable, mon chou.’’

Voldemort scoffed. Abraxas shrugged. Voldemort’s fever had broken. He was actually eating soup. Both of them were in bed and reminiscing. 

‘’What’s your child like?’’

‘’She eerily reminds me of Dolores Umbridge.’’

‘’It isn’t too late to make a new one, you know.’’

Voldemort laughed. Abraxas still felt proud to be able to make him laugh. 


	6. Chapter 6

Summer passed in a blink of an eye. Hermione and Miss String decided to explore the Dean's forest together when her parents had taken her to a camping trip. Harry Potter wound up needing to get rescued by the Weasleys because his home life was beyond abusive. Ron Weasley called up his brothers and decided to be the hero of that situation.

But none of that could compare to what Draco Malfoy was up to the entire summer.

His family, ever altruistic, had taken in a guest for the summer. Draco was told to be on his best behaviour because this guest didn't have qualms about using magic to punish irreverent children. He rolled his eyes at this. His parents were being dramatic, as usual. Who would dare harm a Malfoy in his own house? Only crazy people and –

_The Dark Lord._

Draco's eyes widened when he saw his crimson eyes peering into him. At first glance he'd thought the man to be a vampire, but his family would never let a parasite into their home. They, and this was hard for some to believe, actually had standards. The lowest they would ever go was to allow a halfblood entry.

The Dark Lord’s gaze was hazy. He wore a sleeping robe in the middle of the day and swayed with each step he took. His mother had told him that their guest was ill and that he needed peace and quiet. Draco could bring both of those things, especially once he'd learned that the guest was the Dark Lord (his grandfather had told him, finding it prudent not to keep secrets that Draco could continue to keep secret for the summer time).

''Hello, my lord.'' Draco bowed.

The man hissed something, grimacing once he recognized Draco. ''You're the _fink_.''

Draco raised his gaze from the man's slippers and noticed that he wasn't grimacing because he was faced with a child (Draco knew people didn't like children, much), but because he was faced with a specific child.

''You're the fucking prick that made her cry. If it weren't for you I wouldn't have had to contain that piss-poor snake.'' His words slurred and then hurried and then slowed back down again as he tried to think of what to say. ''Do you know how much damage control I had to do because of _you_?'' The Dark Lord rubbed his temples then, hissing in pain at a migraine that was splitting his head open. Draco wanted to apologize, and he was just halfway into one when the most powerful dark wizard lowered his hand away and flicked it in his direction. Magically Draco's lips pressed together. Panic flared in his eyes. He staggered backwards.

The Dark Lord continued walking forward. His arms shot out to grab for the front of Draco's robes. He lifted him off of the ground and pressed him against the wall nearby. Draco breathed heavily as he tried to figure out what would happen to him next. What he'd done wrong just by trying to greet their lord.

''I will eviscerate you, Draco Malfoy.'' He pulled him back only to snap him back at the wall. Draco cried out in pain and begged for his life, apologizing and asking what he'd done wrong. ‘'I will eviscerate your entire family if you make me do more work than I already need to do. Be nice. Show her the ropes. Be like your grandfather and show Slytherin’s mudblood that House Slytherin can be accommodating.'' Again, the process repeated. Draco hurried to obey, promising that he'd do whatever the Dark Lord asked of him.

''You are lucky your grandfather loves you.'' The Dark Lord hissed and sloppily dropped him to the floor. ''I couldn't care less for your existence.''

Draco breathed heavily, his heart beat to a rhythm inhumane, and his eyes were fogged with tears. He remained on the ground as he watched the sickly figure of the Dark Lord recede from view. Only when the man bounded for another hallway did Draco dare to push himself to his feet and go find his mum.

She was in the garden with his grandfather.

They noticed his dishevelled appearance and pieced two and two together. His grandfather began to laugh in earnest. His mother fretted and went to check up on him immediately.

''My dragon, what has happened?''

''He just _attacked_ me.''

''Oh I do believe he must have had some reason.'' Abraxas mused. He did know the Dark Lord better than anyone.

''Is he okay?'' Draco asked. Narcissa clucked at such a question. Lucius would have said she’d raised their son to be soft for caring for anyone’s health, but empathy could lead a person a long way forward.

''He has lapses where he doesn't know what's happening. Usually I have him confined to his wing at that time, but he must have wandered off. I cannot simply order to him to stay put. He isn't a child.'' Abraxas scoffed. ''Nor am I a healer.''

''Should he get a healer?''

''No.'' Abraxas said.

Draco's face twisted in confusion. ''Why not?''

Narcissa shushed him. ''Some things are better to heal on their own, my brave heart.''

Abraxas stood up and said that he had to go find something that could help him.

* * *

Lucius held the Dark Lord's diary because the man had cornered him in an alcove of his own manor and told him that he needed it hidden away. ''Do not disappoint me, Lucius.''

''Of course not.''

''You have alwayss been biddable.''

''Yes, ahem, thank you, my lord.''

The Dark Lord patted him like a dog and told him to go ahead and scurry along.

* * *

Abraxas couldn't find the diary.

''NARCISSA!! NARCISSA, WHERE IS IT?!''

He sped up, practically running through his own home.

* * *

The Dark Lord collapsed on a bed that wasn't his own, but looked close enough to be.

Draco went to his room, saw who was in it, turned around, and ran away.  
He slept in his parents' bed that night.

* * *

_Hello, my lord._

_Which one are you now?_

_Lucius._

_Oh, the baby can write now._

_I am old enough to have a child in Hogwarts._

_Baby Malfoy. You cry when the peacocks chase you._

_I do not cry anymore._

_Liar._

Lucius didn't appreciate being called out like this by an inanimate object. He asked him if it would be impertinent to disobey the Dark Lord by having him interact with the diary or to go and hide it away as he requested.

The Dairy would have shrugged then if it had the physiology necessary to accomplish such a task.

Lucius decided to hide it away. Abraxas and Narcissa's meddling aside. He didn't need the man irked.

* * *

Through a series of unfortunate events, Ginny Weasley wound up with the Dark Lord's diary. Lucius thought he was being clever.

Until the Dark Lord asked him one night where he'd hidden his diary. ''I'd like it back. I have changed my mind. Abraxas tells me it may relieve some of my symptoms.''

Lucius fell to his knees and cried for clemency.

The Dark Lord's eyes burned into him like scorching, molten lava. ''Lucius,'' his voice was eerily calm when he pulled the man up gently to stand. He placed his hands on Lucius' cheeks and looked at him. ''Do you want to die?''

''N-no, my lord.''

''That is good.'' He whispered. ''I do not want to kill you. I am very fond of you, Lucius. I saw you grow up. I was there to see your first accidental bout of magic. These things make me sentimental, no?'' Lucius melted in relief. He was just about to thank the Dark Lord when he continued: ''Well, they _ought to_ make me sentimental and care about your existence. In truth, Lucius, they do not. I feel nothing towards you.''

Lucius begged.

The Dark Lord hummed. He let go of Lucius. The man was shaking like a thin branch in a hurricane. ''My lord, I will do everything that is in my power to retrieve your diary.''

''I do not doubt that.'' The Dark Lord moved to take a seat on a chaise longue. Standing for long irritated him. It drained him. He closed his eyes. Another migraine was coming along. The fever, at least, did not make a habit of returning. His mind and soul were slowly getting used to the new body. It was slow and painful and made him want to throw up over himself ten times over. But it was still a better existence than what he'd had to live through this past decade.

''Thank you, my lord. Thank you so much.''

‘’If you fail me, Lucius,’’ Lucius stood rooted in place, halfway out of the room, trapped in the doorway to hear his lord out, ‘’I will make your family watch as I undo you piece by piece.’’

‘’Thank you for your mercy.’’ Lucius whispered and disapparated.

* * *

Hermione Granger wasn't the most emotionally intelligent child. But even she could sense that something was off about Ron's younger sister. She didn't say anything, though, because her mother had told her not to draw attention to other people's faults and possible illnesses. That to do so was rude and that they'd not raised her to be rude.

* * *

The Heir of Slytherin arrived with a bang. Blood coated the walls. The Chamber of Secrets was open. Enemies of the heir better beware. A new menace was in town. Or a has-been. Hermione didn’t quite know. This did look like a has-been that wanted to be talked about.

Hermione rolled her eyes at the sheer dramatics of this. She crossed her arms and glared at the bloody inscription. This was not at all how she envisioned her second year at Hogwarts starting. Her eyes narrowed. She needed to find this heir.

* * *

Harry Potter and Hermione Granger got harassed because they could speak parseltongue. They had to be the heirs.

Hermione decided to play along. The real heir was a drama queen of epic proportions. She already pegged him as some sort of narcissist (Hermione read a lot and her parents liked to throw terminology around whenever they talked about each other’s distant relatives) and the heir would show himself to them fairly quickly if he realized that his hard work was being credited to _kids_.

Unless the heir _was_ a kid? This entire situation did speak of an angst-riddled and repressed teenager.

* * *

Pansy Parkinson asked Hermione if she was the heir. Hermione said that it wasn't any of her business to know that. Then she smiled. Daphne had taught her how to smile. Apparently all of Hermione's smiles were genuine and a woman's main job in life was to be as ungenuine as possible. Hermione, personally, thought this was all way too much work.

But the smiling came in handy sometimes.

Pansy huffed. ''Fine, be that way.''

* * *

Draco Malfoy was going through a lot. His father had told him to locate a diary from Ginny Weasley, or any of the Weasleys – he wasn’t certain. His grandfather had told him to be nice to Hermione Granger for a reason Draco could not comprehend. His mother had told him to stay low and not make enemies and try to do well in school.

This was all way too much.

He was in the Common Room and watched as Hermione went to Slythern’s portrait. She hissed amicably and he hissed back at her. It was unnerving to hear the Dark Lord’s language spoken so casually by a mudblood.

However, now was the time to actually start doing his part of the job: ''HERMIONE, HEY, _NERD_ –''

Hermione turned to blink oddly at him. ''What do you want, fink?''

''I can't believe you answer to Nerd, wow.’’ Draco tried, he really did, but he couldn’t turn off the finkness. He was just a twat by nature. ‘’That's a bit sad, don't you think?''

Hermione hissed out a couple of insults.

The portrait of Salazar Slytherin hissed out a half-hearted reprimand. He enjoyed the young girl's candour too much to outright chastise her language. 

‘’Want to go hang out?’’ Draco hoped that, at least, he’d toned it down a little bit.

‘’No.’’ Hermione balked. ’’I really don’t.’’

Draco Malfoy began to fret that the task given to him by the Dark Lord was not going as planned. Would he be cross with him? He hoped not.

* * *

‘’We need to talk about your threatening my grandson.’’

Voldemort was lounging in a study, surrounded by many, many books. He was holding scalding tea in his hands because sometimes a man needed to ground himself and realise that even thought he was surrounded by idiots, there existed competent people – _out there_.

He sipped the tea and burned himself. Then he cursed.

Abraxas watched this entire situation play out in bafflement. ‘’Are you okay?’’

‘’I am.’’ Voldemort vanished the tea. He welcomed Abraxas to his own study and asked him if he needed anything important.

‘’Yes. Stop threatening my grandson.’’

‘’Not your son?’’

‘’No, we’ve gone over this. He’s his mother’s son.’’

‘’Where is Antoinette?’’ Voldemort had noticed her absence.

‘’Oh, yes – she’s gone to France on a summer long trip.’’

‘’How interesting. Is it a trip when she’s just gone home?’’

‘’Potato pohtato.’’ Abraxas wasn’t one to be argued with. Most of the time, he didn’t even care if he was right or not. It made living with him chaotic. It had made being fond of him even more so.

He sat next to Voldemort and asked him: ‘’Do you need a backdoor healer?’’

‘’If this does not get better in a week, don’t ask me. Just get one.’’

It didn’t get better in a week.

Abraxas sent a sedating spell at Voldemort with wicked, unadulterated glee.

But that was in a week, this conversation was still ongoing.

‘’You need to look into your next actions. Will you call the Death Eaters soon?’’

‘’Like this?’’ Voldemort gestured the fact that only recently he’d been bested by a hot drink. ‘’I do not think so, Abraxas. My main goal is to get better.’’

‘’Hmm.’’ Abraxas hummed. Voldemort had learned one thing whilst living with Abraxas: humming never meant anything good for him.

‘’Out it with it.’’

‘’What _next_?’’

‘’One step at a time.’’

‘’No,’’ Abraxas shook his head. He even tapped out a small melody on the wooden part of the couch, the arm rests. This only added to his restlessness. He was building up to a point. ‘’You are a big-picture planner. Once you return to your strength, will you summon the Death Eaters – shall you go to war yet again and see how disastrously you will fail? Oh, no – my _apologies_.’’ The sarcasm oozed in gallons. ‘’You do not believe in Arithmancy predictions. My bad. I had forgotten the 1981 disaster when I’d told you not to pursue the prophecy because – and I quote now – ‘silly fucking numbers’ told me so. Tell me,’’ Abraxas smiled, ‘’how _did_ that work out for you?’’

‘’What is your point now?’’ Voldemort asked, through gritted teeth. He clenched his hands into fists. He hated how Abraxas made him so easily rattled.

‘’I dabbled.’’ Abraxas confessed. ‘’As any Arithmancy Master does. You are going to have to tell me what you plan to do for me to see if I shall need to send Draco to France or not. Because Lucius you may do with as you please – he is yours, he is marked. But I will not let your malformed decisions hurt my grandson.’’

‘’Do you want my honesty?’’

‘’That is what I asked for, yes.’’

Voldemort gave a forced, patronizing smile. ‘’I am uncertain.’’

‘’It shows.’’ Abraxas drawled. He placed his head in his palm and watched the inner battle wage inside of Voldemort. ‘’Do you want me to further clarify?’’

‘’If you would be so kind…’’ Voldemort amped up his sarcasm. As far as confidants went, Abraxas was beginning to be hard to stomach.

‘’Hermione. She’s the variable I don’t know anything about. She can either help your castle stand or knock it down completely, depending on how you approach her. What do you plan to do with your daughter?’’ Abraxas pushed, further, when he saw Voldemort’s evident discomfort at the topic. ‘’Will you let her be a Granger and a possible casualty in your upcoming war? Are you going to forego the war altogether and enjoy a life of hiding while knowing your child is growing up safe? I do not think that you are capable of living a sheltered, on-the-run life. Dumbledore will catch on at some point; it is only a matter of time. If he has not already. The philosopher’s stone is… _unique_.’’

Voldemort opened his mouth: ‘’I-‘’

Abraxas went on, he was not finished. Voldemort sighed and allowed the man to steal what little energy he’d accumulated in this study. ‘’Or will you take her in? Will you just snatch her form a family she does know and perhaps traumatize her. It would be kidnapping, I think. Legally she is a Granger. She wouldn’t be able to go back to Hogwarts, her life would fall apart, I assume – you life would be… complicated. Especially because, as well remember, she is an accident. You have never wanted children. Bellatrix – oh this _does_ remind me. Yes. If you do decide to leave Hermione with the Grangers as I believe you are more inclined –‘’

Voldemort simply watched as Abraxas worked out the entire damn thing without even actually wanting to know Voldemort’s opinion.

‘’— what will you do with Bellatrix? She will not simply stand around and let muggles soil her blood like that. Now, you and I know that the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black can get pretty volatile about these sorts of things. Exhibit A: Walburga Black’s mere existence.’’

‘’Don’t remind me of her. Hermione can yell like she can.’’

‘’Truly? A _halfblood_ has inherited her voice? Now this is irony at its finest.’’ Abraxas clapped giddily. He chuckled, as well, because he was having a great deal of fun. ‘’If you do decide to have a war – your general is in Azkaban. If you pick for Hermione to be a Granger, you’ll need a new one – but let’s be honest here, you’re not the kind of man who has that force in his stride anymore. Bellatrix is your best bet to dominate that chess board. Though, she is a mother.’’

Voldemort, at this point, buried his head in his hands and leaned to place his elbows on his knees.

This did not deter Abraxas. The man had come to say everything he’d been holding in since 1981 and by the gods he was here to accomplish this mission. ‘’And as a mother she is loyal to her child first, isn’t she? I mean, she ought to be. But we all ought to be things that we aren’t, so…Haven’t you ever thought of the fact that by willingly letting Hermione be with muggles you are going to alienate Bellatrix? Is she loyal enough to _you_ , or is she loyal to her pureblood ways more. Do remember, she is a Black by birth. For them hunting muggles is a sport.’’

Abraxas finally stood up. He stretched and cracked his neck. Next he smiled, and it wasn’t a condescending smile – it was one of those special smiles that he gave people who’d gotten their just desserts. ‘’Now I would offer my help. I would do each and every individual equation for each and every possibility until we would end up with the one that would be most beneficial, but I’d done that in 1981, if you recall.’’ His voice dropped, but the smile remained frozen on his face in anger. ‘’Do you recall?’’

‘’I do.’’

‘’Good. But you decided my help wasn’t good enough. Now I leave you with all of this information – because even though you’ve betrayed my trust, I care to see you succeed. I hope you are smart enough to pick the right choice.’’ He waved at Voldemort as he left through the door, leaving him alone. ‘’Sweet dreams!’’

Voldemort leaned back into the couch. He looked up at the ceiling and thought that one night of excess pleasure had cost him quite a lot. ‘’Fuck.’’

* * *

Hermione Granger saw that the passageway to Helga was open, recently so.

She’d promised Helga to keep visiting her once a week, but this was the first time that her and the Heir’s schedules had overlapped. Excellent.

Hermione grabbed hold of her wand, cycled through all of the duelling spells she knew, was satisfied by this, and then jumped down the slide.

This Slytherin Heir better beware.

Hermione Granger was coming for him.


	7. Chapter 7

_Dear Diary,_

_My name is Ginny Weasley and I really like Harry Potter. I think he's the best. Especially because he defeated You-Know-Who as a baby!_

The diary twitched. Ginny didn't mind that. She continued writing, unbeknown to her that said diary was leeching off of her life force.

It was a couple of writings later that Ginny Weasley began to feel faint.

Her handwriting began to feel loopy. Her head filled with fuzz and static.

_Dear Diary,_

_I don't feel so good._

_It's well, Ginny. You don't feel so well. You would think a pureblood knew basic grammar. _

Ginny would have balked, but the man in the diary told her to sleep and she did; in turn she relinquished her body to him.

When Tom Riddle donned Ginny Weasley's body he thought, in an unbearably smug sort of way: ''Ha, I've still got it.''

Finding out through Ginny's ramblings that there were two parselmouths at Hogwarts filled him with slight unease. It would not be strategic of him to set Beatrice on the school. Yet a part of him said 'fuck it' and decided to do so anyhow. A horcrux had only so many things for entertainment.

Perhaps he would lure in Harry Potter (known parselmouth) and defeat him once and for all. The original would be most pleased to hear that. Yes, the original would be most pleased to know that the horcrux he so coveted dearly had ridden him of a baby nemesis. Unknown to the horcrux, Harry Potter was another horcrux. It was the little of things in life, just tiny little misunderstandings that led to utter catastrophe.

Being an eleven year old girl, on the other hand – was just chaotic by itself. While possessing Ginny Weasley Tom was forced into bearing witness to many terrible, horrific conversations. Being a girl was an experience Tom was happy he never had to go through. The things the older girls talked about casually set his nerves aflame in terror. The younger girls were just harrowingly nodding along, mentally preparing for the changes in their bodies about to come.

The 90s were a much more progressive time. Tom didn't think half of these things were mentioned so casually in his day and age. The older girl, having been forced into giving this talk to all little girls who ought to know about their bodies before misinformation corrupted them – she continued speaking about these things, these cycles, these dates and statistics like it was nobody's business. Tom couldn't sleep the night of these revelations. He was a lot more repressed than he'd cared to admit to himself.

It was the strangest thing. Tom wound up inhabiting Ginny Weasley's body for a good few days without anyone even bothering to check up on her/him. It got hard to differentiate. Being an eleven year old girl had its perks. The first year curriculum was ridiculously easy. Much better than if he'd had to possess a fifteen year old running herself ragged about OWLs.

For a girl with so many brothers, they sure as hell didn't care for her. Percy waved. Tom knew him because he was the only one that bothered to check up on her _once_. If he had a sister after so many brothers Tom would have bothered to check up on her a few more times. They were gentler and smaller and had so many things going on with their bodies that Tom had no idea about. They needed all of the help they could get. He continue to think about that illuminating lecture in vivid, unfaltering, nightmare-inducing detail.

His eyes strayed to a conversation happening not far from where he was sitting in the Gryffindor table. Ginny's friends were gushing about people they admired. It was nauseating. Harry Potter this. Harry Potter that. A couple of girls who only had 'girl crushes that were totally not anything other than just admiring another person from a fan's perspective' had quite a lot of things to say about 'cool' girl Lavander Brown. Tom pitied these children.

They had no idea what was coming to them. In a way, letting Beatrice roam freely in the school would be a mercy. Yes, Tom justified his criminal activity – he would be helping these poor mudbloods.

So, he went and opened the Chamber of Secrets.

And tried not to glare when Hermione Granger called this a cry for help from a deranged student. ''It's just very sad, Harry.'' She addressed Potter. They were hissing in parseltongue and slowly becoming alienated by the general public, but Hermione didn't seem to care much and Potter was just an overall menace by default so he followed what Hermione told him. He did look like he was more of a sheep than a wolf.

''I mean, doesn't it look like it's from some sort of has-been that wants to be talked about?''

Tom Riddle knew so many spells that he could be using on this girl. But he didn't, because he quite disliked fighting someone who couldn't fight back. It just wasn't sportsmanlike of him. Besides, the way Draco Malfoy was running around her – desperately asking for her attention – did remind him of something similar from his past.

* * *

''Tom! Tom!''

Tom Riddle pretended like he did not hear Abraxas Malfoy screaming at him. He did not want to know what the pureblood wanted of him. Nothing good. The purebloods never wanted anything good when they asked for his company. Riddle was not a halfblood name, nor a pureblood name – it was a mudblood name and what else was a mudblood to be used for other than nefarious things? Walburga Black had tried setting him on fire twice in the span of a week. It was the same every year he returned. When classes began in full they would ease up, realising that the House Cup cannot be won without him. But until such a moment came that they remembered Tom was good for something – they followed him about and attempted to menace him.

''Tom, come on! I only wish to talk!'' Abraxas continued.

Tom did not anticipate that Abraxas was genuine. He was the first and only genuine person he'd actually had the pleasure of meeting. It was obscene. Honesty? From a pureblood? It was inconceivable.

He sped up pace. Yet damned Abraxas was taller. Tom had only the malnourishment form the orphanage to thank for his short figure. The girl's lavatory was nearby. Maybe he could ditch him there? It was worth a try.

If he raised his wand at Abraxas it would get Dumbledore involved as he was looking for any possible reason to send him back. Tom Riddle would not let that happen! Mrs. Cole didn't want him back unless it was for the holidays and Tom didn't care much for the abuse to be brought back so easily.

Once in the empty girl's lavatory he had pivoted on his heel with his yew wand aimed at Abraxas. ''Wot the 'ell do you bloody want you posh twat?'' Ah yes, the beauty of London and the accents she gave her children.

Abraxas' eyes twinkled. Usually Tom's accent put people off. He didn't quite know how to handle the opposite reaction. ''Wot?'' Tom had, of course, learned how to sound posh because he wanted these classist finks to take him seriously. But when rattled like this his real accent did reveal itself.

''I have wanted to tell you this for a while now, I must admit.'' Abraxas gave a lopsided smile. He rubbed the back of his neck and looked away in embarrassment.

Tom narrowed his eyes in dire suspicion for Abraxas' behaviour. The Malfoy was Walburga's right hand man. He oversaw the woman's ideas for fun and – to be fair – stopped her in her more destructive ventures before she set fire to the damned school with fiendfyre. The Sacred Twenty-Eight gave themselves too much leeway. And whenever Walburga did something (most of the time an attempt on Tom's life – which only further fed his already devastating fear of death) none of the faculty could take points from her because her parents were – quote unquote – the most important people on this damned island.

''I,'' Abraxas mustered up strength, he was obviously trying to force himself to say something that was difficult and maybe even revealing of his true character, ''I am fond of you!''

Tom figured that nothing could be worse than hearing such a thing. Especially with the way he'd been raised by bigots in the muggle world. What Abraxas was implying was very much illegal and depraved in the 1940s, thank you.

''I won't get you to expel me by falling for your evil prank!''

Abraxas was just about to defend himself when Tom heard a voice in the pipes telling him that she was bored and sensed he was in need of a safe space from such enemies. Tom, were he of more sound mind, would have given this more thought. However, since he was utterly flabbergasted by this turn of events morphing his life into a poorly constructed rollercoaster – he decided to listen to the voice lulling him in a sense of relief and security.

_Small sound, small sound – do not distress._

''You can tell Walburga and her cronies that I am here to stay for good!'' Tom shouted. It was their OWL year and he was becoming just a tad sleep deprived as the study sessions went by. He'd actually lost ten points (which he recovered and added more on, never fret) because he'd fallen asleep in the library on more than one occasion.

''Tom, I am serious!'' Abraxas continued lying (he really was not lying, but Tom, at the time, couldn't be arsed to believe people when they were telling him things, deciding to think they all lied to his face for their own amusement). He wrung his hands together and looped and unlooped him in anxious manner. ''I do not mean to offend you-''

''You _have_ offended me.'' Tom listened to the snake in the pipes telling him how to get to safety from this monstrous creature offering him affection and love. ''Perchance you think I may say I return your feelings,'' he spat the word and attempted to find the proper sink to hiss into. His hands were rigid and his shoulders were tense with evident discomfort, ''and then you may go to a pensieve, get your memories sorted out, and hand them over to Dumbledore or Headmaster Dippet and get me kicked out – but –'' Tom found the sink, hissed in it, and exclaimed when he saw the entrance beginning to form, ''-HA! I am not so such easy prey, Malfoy. I know that that's illegal.''

''It's illegal?'' Abraxas was horrified. It was around this time that Tom found out that half of the things that were illegal in the muggle world were not illegal in the magical one. But for now he lived in terrified ignorance of such a fact as he sat down to go down this slide of doom. Anything was better than having such an uncomfortable conversation with a posh dumbarse.

Once he pushed himself down the slide, Tom found himself exclaiming: ''I enjoy the company of women! And _only_ women, thank you!''

* * *

Tom got a bit reminiscent while he stood in the girl's lavatory. He was an absolute idiot as a fifteen year old. Luckily, soon after his encounter with Abraxas he'd killed Myrtle and realised that after successfully snuffing out a life – being queer was truly not that big of a deal. So, in a strange way, he had Myrtle Warren to thank for his continued relationship with Abraxas. He sat down Ginny's body on the edge of the slide and wondered what it would feel like when one was even smaller than he'd been when he pushed himself down this slide.

A more harrowing thought entered his mind. Ginny Weasley had no blood of Slytherin coursing through her veins. He would not be able to speak to Beatrice as an equal, but would have to hope that without eye contact she would trust him and do his bidding. As he tried to tie a scarf around Ginny's eyes, he slipped and began to slide. It was still very enjoyable. This slide truly did not grow old.

Beatrice was a good sport. She talked about a little girl that came and went. Tom was quite peeved to hear that he was not the only small sound in Beatrice's life anymore. It was even more startling a revelation than the one he'd gleaned from Lucius' most recent writing.

Lucius had said, in not many words, that the original and Abraxas had a much more strained relationship than either wished to let on. Tom had tried asking why, but what he could gather was that he'd betrayed Abraxas' trust and that Abraxas, in his own way, had kept such feelings bottled up for a good decade or so. The only thing Tom figured this could be about had to do with the original going behind Abraxas' back and –

''Halt!''

Tom, in Ginny's body, turned around. He pulled the scarf over his eyes and balked at the sight in front of him.

Hermione Granger stood her ground, her wand was menacingly outstretched. How Tom was expected to take anyone with such bad hair seriously was beyond him. Her mane was practically devouring this little girl. And she was little. Well, she was taller than Ginny, but if Tom was in his own body she would be little to him.

Still, her height was the least of his problems right now. He continued to be amazed that the original had actually gone and made a child with a Black. It was disappointing. Once Lucius had told him, Tom had been truly disappointed and horrified. Why on Earth would they (any of them, the original) continue the line of Walburga Blacks willingly? It didn't make any sense. Besides, hadn't they agreed that children made them uncomfortable because they reminded them of the children of his own youth? How could the original be so bloody stupid?

''Do you have any idea how much trouble you're in, Ginny?'' Hermione, meanwhile, continued her tirade, ''Sweet Salazar, you could get expelled for the nasty pranks you've pulled. I know it runs in the family for you to pull pranks, but not even Fred and George could pull off something so foul. Did Ron teach you how to hiss out open at the door and that's how you got in here?'' Hermione continued to rationalize Ginny's – Tom's presence in the Chamber. It was a frightening sight to see how her mind worked so fast.

It worked well, fast, but just – it lacked a crucial piece of knowledge that would make her theory completely different: Ginny was not Ginny. Ginny was currently inhabiting her own subconscious because Tom had shoved her over there while he played around as an eleven year old girl. The facts he had learned during this adventure would haunt him for the rest of his life.

‘’Yes, well – what are you going to do about it?’’ Tom took up Ginny’s wand and pointed it at Hermione. She twitched at the hostile sign.

‘’Ginny, I’m _older_ than you.’’ Her hair was tingeing red. She mimicked her opponent. It looked to be a subconscious thing with her. Tom, were he a metamorphagus like Cygnus and Hermione, would constantly shift forms to throw his opponents off. It would make duelling all the more fun. ‘’You’re supposed to do as I tell you.’’ Hermione slammed her foot on the ground and gritted her teeth.

Tom smiled. It looked ill-fitting on an eleven year old girl. It was too knowing a smile for an eleven year old girl. ‘’Ha. What if I don’t want to?’’ It would be best to apprehend this child before she realised she held the upper hand by being able to see Beatrice eye-to-eye. The basilisk only trusted and obeyed those with full control over her. If he riled Hermione enough to duel him it would be too easy. ‘’What are you going to do?’’

Hermione crossed her arms. ‘’I’m going to write your _mum_.’’

And just like that— Tom Riddle could feel Ginny Weasley fighting to take over control in such a harsh and unfaltering manner. It almost would have inspired him or awed him if it didn’t threaten to dissolve everything he’d been doing.

Hermione, realising that something was severely wrong with the picture in front of her (Tom, in Ginny’s body, hissing curses – Ginny, taking back her own body – screaming for help) decided that the Basilisk could help her out by just being there.

‘’If you don’t stop that I’ll have my snake eat you.’’ Hermione lied. If she did something like that she would get expelled. And the very last thing Hermione wanted was to get expelled. Think of the utter shame? The fact that she would be behind her peers in a year? The fact that her entire ten year plan would derail itself? It was too big of a risk for something as simple as having a student get devoured.

Whatever or whoever was fighting with Ginny Weasley must have realised that the position he was in was not good because Helga the friendly Basilisk had come by to hiss closely at them. She was saying hi and also promising to gnaw on their bones. Hermione and she were still working on their interpersonal communication skills. Improvement did take time, after all.

To speed this process along, Hermione sent a stinging hex at Ginny. ‘’What is happening here?’’

But Ginny’s voice (clearly her voice, not slightly different in speed or manner of speaking as it was before) pierced the air as she shouted, through tears: ‘’Take it away from me. I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry. Please, don’t tell my mum! I’m sorry!’’ With shaky hands she pulled out a leather bound journal from her inner robe pocket and threw it at Hermione. She fell to her knees and cried.

Hermione, yet again, very stunted in these sorts of situations – decided to check out the journal. Helga the basilisk was instructed to nuzzle (with her eyes closed) against Ginny for comfort. Hermione didn’t quite know how to hug people yet and she didn’t want to bungle it. Ginny looked like she needed O-mark hugs.

The journal, however, was brooding. Hermione took out a pencil from her pocket (because she always carried around a pencil and a little notebook to write interesting bits down – an inkwell and quill were so impractical, really) and wrote down.

_Who are you?_

_Tom._

_That sounds about right. Only someone named Tom could stir so much trouble and then fall short of succeeding._

_It was a strategic move. I did not want to die via basilisk gaze. Ginny throws a mean left hook in the mindscape and you were armed. If it were not for your basilisk I could have taken you both. I am, after all, incredibly powerful. _

_I’ll talk to you later. After I get Ginny home safely._

_You won’t report me?_

_Probably I will when I get homework and don’t have enough free time to deal with you. For now I won’t. I want to figure out what you are._

Before Tom could write anything else, Hermione closed the journal and went to help Ginny. ‘’Hey, Ginny, Ron’s little sister – hello – do you want to go to the infirmary?’’

‘’You won’t tell?’’ Ginny sniffled. She was quite shaken the poor thing. Unfortunately Hermione had no idea how to handle something like this.

Hermione wanted to say that she had no other choice, but Ginny was so sad and Hermione was trying to be more of a cool person. Pansy wouldn’t approve of her snitching. Snitches got a hex to the back and wound up passed out in ditches, or something along the same lines. Hermione didn’t pay much attention to what Pansy said. Not that the girl wasn’t smart – Pansy was quite smart when she was in her element – it was just that Hermione had much better things to think about: school, new things to learn, why she was a metamorphagus when the books she’d read said that only those with at least one magical parent could be born as one.

‘’No, Ginny. Don’t worry. I won’t tell.’’ Hermione smiled.

Ginny sniffled, again. She hugged Hermione. Hermione hugged her back. Personally, she’d grade this hug as a 6/10. It needed more work.

Once they parted ways, Hermione took the journal out in the privacy of her own bed (the curtains were closed, of course).

_Who planted you in the school?_

_Already so sure I wasn’t already a part of it, aren’t you?_

_If you were a part of this school, you would be common knowledge as an urban legend._

_Fair enough. Have you ever wondered why a mudblood –_

Hermione crossed out the word. Tom stopped writing.

_That is a bad word. Don’t be so cruel. I’m giving you a chance to make your case before I hand you over to professor Snape. Even he doesn’t like that word._

* * *

Severus Snape, after Hermione had told him about Draco’s name calling the previous year, had sighed deeply and given Draco detention. ‘’Learn better insults.’’ He advised them.

* * *

_My apologies for rattling your childish sensibilities. Tell me, Hermione, how are you and Harry Potter parselmouths?_

_We just are._

_No, those are inborn characteristics. Plus, the parsel gene demands a magical carrier in order to be transferred. Not even squibs can carry-_

Pansy opened Hermione’s curtains, ignored the journal because it wasn’t any of her business, and ordered: ‘’Millicent has an ouija board. Come and play with us.’’

Hermione snapped the journal shut and screamed aloud: ‘’You cannot do that! It is against the rules. We are only twelve – thirteen year olds at best! Are you out of your minds?’’

‘’Hermione,’’ Daphne Greengrass (who was just there, watching things unfold because she usually never got involved) decided to get involved, ‘’shut up and play. With the wards Hogwarts has nothing sinister can get inside of this school.’’ Daphne Greengrass would not think so if she knew of the contents of Hermione’s odd journal.

Pansy reminded her of the laws of the cool world. ‘’It isn’t cool to tattle.’’

Hermione sighed, deeply, aggravated. Yet she wanted to belong more badly than she wanted to tattle. ‘’Fine.’’

She sat down at the table with the rest of her dormmates. It would be a long night.


	8. Chapter 8

The Chamber of Secrets opened and closed just as quickly. There were no petrified people. Hermione would do everything in her power to protect Helga from any sinister forces that wished to make her hurt others. Slytherin said that she was a guardian of the school and that she obeyed easily. It would be wrong to take advantage of her like that.

Slytherin’s portrait, also, noticed Hermione as she peered at the journal and wrote it in it sometimes. He said nothing. Until the moment that he couldn’t keep his mouth shut any longer: ‘’Hatchling, have you enough sun?’’

‘’My scales are warm and I have recently hunted. Long one, thank you for asking.’’ Hermione smiled. She looked up from the journal and her hair turned the same shade of Slytherin’s. He looked at her in amusement. Then his mood soured upon noting how fast Hermione’s attention returned to the journal. He remembered this journal and the boy writing in it.

‘’Hatchling, that is cold as ice.’’ He pointed to the journal. ‘’It will make you cold, as well. Be wary of it.’’

‘’What is it?’’ Hermione asked. The journal hissed at her. His magic was becoming outwardly hostile whenever Hermione stopped paying too much attention to it. Tom Riddle was becoming a nuisance; one that she did not want to see grow into a dangerous enemy.

Salazar narrowed his eyes. He contemplated what to say. ‘’It is dangerous.’’

‘’Okay, but what _is_ it?’’ Hermione pushed. She didn’t accept things to be as they were without knowing what they did and where they had come from. This had made Hermione a difficult child to raise as a young girl because she was one of those kids that asked why until she wore down every adult in her life.

The journal oozed with its magic. Hermione opened it and wrote down: _I’m talking to someone. Can you not?_

_Don’t talk to him. He is an old and decrepit man trapped in a portrait. He doesn’t know anything anymore._

_And you are an annoying and rude teenager trapped in a journal. I bet you are only attacking professor Slytherin like this because he knows exactly what you are. _

Hermione snapped the journal shut, put the journal underneath her arm, craned her neck at the painting, and said: _‘’I want to know.’’_

So, professor Slytherin attempted to tell her. Attempted, because Draco Malfoy shouted: ‘’HERMIONE GRANGER, WAIT!’’ and Hermione decided that she really couldn’t be in the same room as Draco.

‘ _’Sir, we’ll talk later._ Draco, I told you to stop following me!’’ Hermione said, halfway into a sprint to leave his vicinity as fast as possible.

* * *

Hermione thought about telling someone from the faculty about the journal. Tom was becoming quite tedious. He kept trying to fill her head with things all while trying to feed her wrong information. It was just as exhausting as talking to a real boy. An adult needed to intervene. Especially because the faculty began to watch Hermione and Harry.

The Chamber of Secrets had opened and a threat had been made, all for nothing to come out of it. It was strange by all accounts. Harry said he had a talk with their Headmaster as a result of this mysterious occurrence.

''He just wanted to know if everything was all right or if there was anything I wanted to tell him.''

Hermione began to sweat. Lying and omitting was serious business that she was only beginning to take part in. She was a good kid, a perfect kid. The kind of kid that was a pleasure to have in class and over for dinner. Not that Hermione had gone on many dinners or been invited over to have sleepovers. Her parents had organized a sleepover when Hermione was ten, trying to make her feel included – but it had only made her miserable because she could tell the other girls were only there to humour their parents.

Ron couldn't spend time with them right now because Percy was rounding them all up for a family meeting. It detailed reprimands about behaviour and a threat that severe repercussions would befall them if they didn't stop with the pranks.

So, Harry and Hermione loitered about a tree outside and talked. She had her journal with her in her school bag. Harry asked her if she wanted to visit Hagrid. Hermione might as well.

Hagrid was so relieved. He'd heard that the Chamber opened and worried that he would get involved as he had been wrongfully charged the first time it had opened. ''Tom Riddle, the current prefect at the time – very kind lad – he didn't know better. He saw me and my sweet Aragog.'' Sniffled then, because Hagrid was quite a man with quite a big heart. ''I don't blame him for coming to such conclusions, but they snapped my wand and expelled me.''

Hermione was _horrified_ that Tom Riddle would do something so foul to further his own gain. It was evil and wicked. How could he get someone expelled for a thing he hadn't done? It was morally reprehensible and her hair curled in anger. She simmered with it and let it run its course through her. It would not be so easily forgiven. Justice must be had.

Harry was horrified that the forbidden forest had such an abundance of deadly creatures. He wanted to go exploring with Hermione (not Ron because he had a deathly fear of spiders and would say no to such an offer).

They both waved Hagrid off when they were leaving and told him that they'd come back for more tea and lovely chats at a later time.

Hermione balled her hands into fists and hissed: _''I can't believe it.''_

Harry shrugged. ''What's wrong?'' He didn't hiss back. It was like he wasn't a proper parselmouth; the words didn't come naturally to him. Hermione had stopped correcting him when he bungled the hisses. It was exhausting her.

''There is so much wrong in this world.'' She said, in English. Her eyes burned and her grip on her school bag was vice-like. When she was alone she was going to write quite a few things to Tom Riddle. The nerve of someone so evil like him. He hurt Ginny – Hermione tallied the crimes she was aware of – he caused a great commotion in the school, he was a pain in the neck to talk to (not a crime, per se, but a clear annoyance for sure), he was a parselmouth (Hermione had been confused to find out that speaking parseltongue used to be illegal at a time due to laws enacted from religious bias), and he was hiding something _dire_ from her.

Harry, abused by the Dursleys, Potter nodded. ''Yeah, the world isn't that fun.''

''You should really tell the social services about your aunt and uncle.'' Hermione crossed her arms. ''It's wrong.''

''I can't.'' Harry whispered, resentfully. ''Professor Dumbledore told me that my mother's protection is very important. I don't really understand much of it, but apparently I can't leave the Dursleys if I want to be protected by my mum's magic.''

''I don't think your mum would want you to suffer – protection notwithstanding.'' Hermione stood her ground. ''You're Harry Potter, Harry – I mean, can't you get a lawyer or something? Learn what rights you have. I'd do that if I was in your position. To be honest,'' Hermione thought hard, ''I should actually check what rights I have. This world doesn't abide by muggle law.''

''It doesn't?''

''Not really.''

''Huh.''

''Yeah.''

Their silent contemplations were cut short by a shout: ''GRANGER!''

''Oh god not this idiot again.'' Hermione whispered under her breath.

Draco Malfoy was waving at them.

''He _really_ wants to be your friend.'' Harry commented.

Hermione buried her head in her hands when she noticed Draco sprinting towards them.

* * *

Voldemort was ignoring Abraxas Malfoy. This was the only other course of action available to him. Confrontation never was his forte.

He asked Lucius to duel him so he could get his strength back up. Lucius, realising that he'd not been asked, but had been ordered to comply – did as told.

Wiping the floor with Lucius Malfoy put a smile on Voldemort's face. Because he still had it. Until, of course, he realised that Lucius had been holding back. That was an insult Lord Voldemort could not tolerate. And he could tolerate a great many things.

''Why would you do something like that?''

''You're still very ill, my lord.''

''Just because I wake up in cold sweat, screaming my head off in agony does not give you the right to patronize me, Lucius. How do you expect me to get better if you all bloody coddle me like some terminally ill elder?'' Voldemort wasn't the type of man to get sick often, so this hurt his ego a lot more than true defeat would have. And he had been defeated in battle, when he'd been overwhelmed with spell fire from all sides, when he'd had to defeat multiple trained opponents – it would be very folk-hero-like if he had never suffered a single injury in war.

Moody had gone all out once and shot his shoulder, dislocating it. Another time Septimus Weasley managed to get a hit in and crushed his kneecap with a hex. Voldemort was actually realising what a good thing it was to have a brand new body. That one didn't move as quickly anymore. And the joints had begun to ache whenever the weather turned rainy – which in England was a constant threat.

''I'll duel you.'' Abraxas called out from above them. He was leaning on the terrace and watching them have at it in the clearing outside.

''You won't duel me, you'll attempt to _kill_ me.'' Voldemort shouted.

''Oh come on.'' Abraxas laughed. ''No, I won't.''

''Yes, you will! You're being passive aggressive needlessly and I don't trust you.''

''Do tell me what you think I'm angry about when you figure it out.''

''The prophecy business.''

''And?''

''There's an _and_?''

Abraxas' mood soured.

Voldemort saw it. ''Wait. No, don't make that face.''

''Unbelievable.'' Abraxas raised his hands in the air and went back inside.

''Do you have any idea what this is about? He wasn't like this before.''

''You were... too sick to attack before. Father wanted to see you get back on your feet before knocking you down.''

''Ah yes, dear Abbie.'' Voldemort glanced over to the closed terrace door leading to Abraxas' room. ''Stop being a fucking prick, Abraxas!''

Abraxas returned to the terrace to shout down at Voldemort.

Lucius slowly began to inch away from the two powerful men. He fled to Narcissa and said that he would be leaving for Franc for the foreseeable future.

''Are your fathers fighting?''

''Don't call them that, Cissa.'' Lucius whispered. ''You know those implications worry me.''

''Your fathers are fighting,'' Narcissa, ever chaotic in her spare time, sing sang.

''Cissa, don't.'' Lucius begged. It was bad enough to still be on the search for that diary (Draco wasn't yielding any results) but to be confronted with his father's strained relationship with the Dark Lord was something he didn't deserve, at all.

Narcissa kissed him and apologized. ''Say hello to your wretched mother, won't you?''

Lucius promised to do so. ''It beats sitting around here and hearing-''

An explosion that distinctly sounded like a maxmimum bombarda coupled with fiendfyre echoed away in Lucius' near vicinity. ''Oh Merlin, Narcissa, they've escalated.''

''Finally. Some fun.'' Narcissa wished Lucius good luck with his mother and said that she would be a dutiful daughter-in-law to these powerful men and be their referee.

''My mother likes you.'' Lucius defended. ''You don't have to stay here.''

''Yes, but they both like me better.'' Narcissa smiled and went to find her lords. ''My lord, Lord Malfoy – do you need the services of a duelling spectator?''

Lucius disapparated before hearing a hearty 'yes'.

* * *

Draco Malfoy really, really wanted to be friends.

Hermione got worn down to accepting. She lacked friends and Draco looked truly remorseful for his actions the previous year. ''It was wrong of me to call you that.''

''Why?'' Hermione crossed her arms and waited for a proper explanation. Harry raised his brows and waited for Draco to fumble about. The two were rivals of sort.

''Why? Because – uh – it's not a nice thing to say.''

Hermione scoffed at such a subpar explanation and began to explain in explicit detail how such racist rhetoric can grow into something devastatingly brutal if untreated. She read a lot as a kid. Her parents were advocates for basic civil rights. Racism had no place in the Granger household.

Draco's head spun in circles.

''Come on, Harry, Draco's just saying things for attention now.'' She and Harry left.

* * *

''Thirty years of my life I've given you!''

''They were good thirty years! I do not understand what the fuss is about now. You had fun. I had fun. I do admit that I couldn't have been there for you and your many, many peafowls during the 80s, but as you are well aware – I was indisposed!''

''This isn't about the 80s!''

Rapid spell fire ran rampant across the Manor. Vases got broken. Staircases got burned. Rugs got destroyed. Narcissa watched from underneath her shield. This had to be the most fun she'd had in this house since marrying.

''What about you, hm? If we are dredging up the past – you did not look for me! Quirrel – a man I only ever interacted with minimally – found me and decided to help me. He was more loyal to me than you.''

''You dare speak to me about **_loyalty_**?'' Abraxas laughed so hard tears sprang up in his eyes. They didn't cast unforgivables at each other and Narcissa had to praise their commitment to this fierce battle. They were just blowing off steam. Sometimes duelling it out solved a lot more problems than initially thought even existed. ‘’What in Circe’s sacred name do you call that stint with Bellatrix then?!’’

Narcissa wondered if Bellatrix knew she’d caused such an impressive duel to happen. At another round of thinking, Narcissa decided that Bellatrix knew he was capable of tearing apart worlds for her beauty, like Helen of Troy.

Voldemort halted, for the first time stumped in the duel. He dodged a nasty curse from Abraxas and shouted, his face creased in utter, complete enlightenment: ‘’ _That’s_ what this is all about?’’

This was the wrong thing to say because it diminished Abraxas’ feelings. Voldemort, much alike his daughter, never truly bothered to learn how to get on with people. He only read people’s minds and twisted their desires to further his goals and get him more followers. Well, he couldn’t read Abraxas’ mind. Not with the shields the man had, anyhow.

Abraxas twisted his wand in intricate movements and sent a giant peacock patronus at the man. ‘’Yes, _that_ is exactly what this is about!’’

‘’Not the prophecy?’’ Voldemort wondered as he ducked behind a turned over couch to take cover.

‘’You’re an idiot, I won’t fault you for believing in a branch of magic a lot of people still believe is worth a care.’’

Narcissa had to marvel at the fact that duelling while talking had to be difficult and spoke about immense skill that both of these wizards were not only capable of talking – but were capable of arguing their points across all while doing silent (and at times wandless) magic.

‘’I’m an idiot now!’’

‘’Is this _news_ to you, mon chou?’’

Narcissa snorted down a giggle. These two were worse than her own parents. And Cygnus absolutely loved turning himself into his wife while she was cross with him so she would have to argue with herself. It was just that kind of pettiness Narcissa had inherited.

‘’I kept my mouth silent on Orion Black!’’

‘’I asked you about Orion Black and you said ‘yes’!’’

‘’Did you?’’ Voldemort could not recall.

‘’YES!’’

‘’What about Regina Nott! Her I had no idea about!’’

‘’You set me up with her!’’

‘’I’m beginning to think that half of my memories are scattered across five – six pieces.’’

‘’Five. Man cannot even remember how many times he’s split his soul!’’

Narcissa reminded them that she was very much still there. ‘’Hello.’’

‘’Wait. Fuck. I forgot about her.’’

‘’Thank you, Abraxas, for showing me what an absolute gem of a man you are. Go make her swear an unbreakable vow to keep her mouth shut.’’

Narcissa had to. There were no other alternative.

‘’For your information I made _six_.’’ Voldemort said. His tone was acidic.

‘’Do you want me to count them for you?’’ Abraxas returned, voice drawling in condescension.

‘’Harry Potter is a _parselmouth_.’’

‘’Oh for fuck’s sake.’’ Abraxas cursed. ‘’You don’t think the Potter family had some latent ability perhaps?’’

‘’No, no. That is all my doing.’’

‘’If you hadn’t listened to Bellatrix when I advised you to discard the prophecy – do you know how many you’d still have – ‘’

Voldemort opened his mouth to answer. At this point in his life he ought to know better and know that Abraxas only rhetorically asked.

‘’FIVE, TOM! You would have _FIVE_!’’

‘’Just out of curiosity – why are you two fighting _exactly_?’’ Narcissa asked. She strode across the soot covered living room, passed by the dented furniture and noted the devastated wall fixtures swaying dismally. She lowered her dress when she stood between the two wizards. ‘’I personally fail to understand this tiff.’’

‘’I apologize for the prophecy, Abraxas. You were right and I was blind. There. That’s settled.’’ Voldemort half-heartedly apologized for the sake of apologizing.

Abraxas’ nostrils twitched. ‘’It isn’t sincere enough.’’

‘ ** _’Ha._** You _know_ me, Abraxas. I’ve never apologized sincerely in my life.’’

‘’ _I_ deserve better.’’ Abraxas crossed his arms and stared down Voldemort, who was coughing up the dirt and soot that had gotten in his lungs. His expression softened, slightly, when he noticed that the man was coughing laboriously. Wandlessly he opened the door to the garden and bore witness to all of the worried peafowls coming in to peck at them to check if they were okay. Some of the peahens surrounded Voldemort and nuzzled against him. ‘’Come on,’’ Abraxas walked over to Voldemort, grabbed his underarm, and pulled him outside in the fresh air.

‘’Are you truly so angry about Bellatrix?’’ Voldemort asked, voice wheezy. ‘’She seduced me. I would like to make plainly clear. I _have_ made it plainly clear.’’

‘’Of course.’’ Abraxas remembered that conversation. It was followed by the revelation of pregnancy and Abraxas had been supportive of Voldemort for the sake of the child. The man did need to continue the Slytherin line – it would be too selfish of him not to do such a thing. But Abraxas had not been supportive of _Bellatrix_. ‘’Except you truly did stop listening to a single thing I had to say. You shoved me to the side. I never shoved you to the side. I respected you far more than to do that.’’

‘’She was pregnant.’’

‘’Regardless.’’

‘’I did not want her to die.’’

‘’Ah, so you blame your betrayal and lack of thinking on irrational fear. Is that your final answer?‘’

Voldemort bit back angry retorts that would shove them all back to square one. He felt like discarding his wand, his magic, and punching this incredibly handsome fink in the face.

Abraxas, equally as pent up with a ton of things on his mind, wondered what it would feel like to do so many despicable things to Voldemort.

They were both thinking about these things when Narcissa decided she had something to say.

‘’Just out of curiosity, I don’t mean to offend you –‘’ Narcissa was either going to solve this entire situation or get incinerated. She thought that her sister Bella would be proud of her nerve and her chaos. Or maybe she was thinking of Andromeda. It was hard to remember Andromeda. ‘’My lords,’’

Both men turned to her. They waited for her to say her piece. If they knew what she was about to say they would have ridden her from the face of this planet before being forced into hearing her next words: ‘’Have you two been intimate, _at all_ , since Bellatrix got pregnant?’’

Voldemort blanched. ‘’How dare you presume your place like this, Narcissa!’’

Abraxas was screeching. ‘’Why, I would never believe someone I let into my family would have such a crass and uncouth mouth on her! I AM HORRIFIED!’’

Narcissa stood her place as these two men berated her for the next hour and a half. She didn’t mind; especially not because she recognized the tell-tale sign of _revelation_ dancing in their eyes.

* * *

Hermione was listening to another one of Tom Riddle’s spiels. Well, she was actually reading about them in the journal. She couldn’t imagine the chaos of giving this criminal a chance to roam freely with a voice and a body. No, no. Hermione was smarter than this.

After she had detailed what she was going to do to him if he didn’t give her answers about what he was and who he actually was (because Tom Riddle – and she’d checked – ceased to exist in 1950) Hermione waited for Tom Riddle to try and weasel his way out of this one.

Unlike many children, Hermione had a similar ability to parseltongue that allowed her to sense when people were lying to her. It was a handy tactic in most cases, but in some it made her have an uncomfortable revelation that her mom had, in fact, eaten her Halloween sweets. She noted, with obvious discomfort, that Draco had a similar ability. Much later, Hermione would find out that this was a Black characteristic they’d both inherited from their birth mothers.

For now, Hermione used her skill to tell when Tom Riddle fibbed. And fib he did.

_Hermione, let’s not talk about me. Let us talk about you! I have paid my dues for the crimes I’ve committed, but you live in ignorance. Do you know that being a metamorphagus is a trait only children with at least one magical parent can have?_

She did. This was why she did not like this at all. The notebook pages oozed with ink like blood oozed off of walls in horror movies her dad was fond of watching. Hermione hoped, against hope that her life never ended up as a horror movie. She didn’t know how that would work for her.

_Don’t you think that’s odd? You say proudly - and of course you should feel proud of the only life you know, it is yours – that you are a muggleborn. These are lies. You have been lied to, Hermione. You are not a muggleborn. You are not a filthy mudblood. I thought the same, too, child. We are the same in that regard. We wear names that do not reflect who we are._

Hermione crossed the words out and breathed heavily. She could feel next, witnessing how Tom Riddle spoke only the truth to hide away his true identity from her. She could feel, also, how the ink began to travel across the pages and onto her skin, drenching her body in its dark, murky colour.

The pages spoke instead of wrote. No, Hermione corrected as the words bombarded her, causing her to stagger backwards to wall in her dormitory all alone because she refused to go to a quidditch game – the pages _hissed_ : _‘’Parseltongue is the same. You cannot be a muggleborn. The Grangers are not your family. Hermione, you cannot rat me out because we are the same. We are both made of the same mould. It would be betrayal not only to me but to all of the parselmouths. We stick with our own, do we not?’’_

Hermione hissed in an attempt to try and shake the ink off, but it continued to attack. She screamed. _‘’Hermione, Hermione, Hermione – you ask me who I am, but you ought to ask yourself who you are. A child of dentists? Fucking dentists, **really**?No, no no no no – you are so much more than that. You are meant to rule these sheep. Just as I ruled them. Those muggles may have their use for now, but there will come a time when you will see that they will only stifle you, that they cannot truly understand the sheer potential you have. Muggles always show their true colours sooner or later. They are not meant to be parents to us, to magic folk. They are meant to be servants. You are not a servant. No, you are mine! And no daughter of mine will be deluded with such fallacies as to think she is a filthy, disgusting **mudblood** \- ‘’_

Hermione’s magic burst from within her, shattering their connection and flinging the journal back into the opposite direction. The power of scared, accidental magic was not to be trifled with. Hermione tried to breathe. Ink fell from her skin and slithered backwards to the journal. It hissed and rattled, but the words did not come as clearly as before. Hermione had been writing in it for too long. With shaky feet she rose and fled to the Common Room.

As if slammed with a sledgehammer her walls shook inside of her. Her thoughts swam and drowned in the recess of her mind that she dared not venture into. But now, forced to think about things that she did not want to think about –Hermione had no other choice. Inside her chest, her heart was beating strongly and quickly. It ran a race with her tremor-ridden hands as her fingers curled around the stair ledge as she went up the stairs towards the Common Room.

There she spotted Salazar Slytherin and no one else. Those that liked quidditch were on the pitch, those that had OWLs and NEWTs were in the library. This left little belongs-nowhere Hermione Granger to fend off an attack. She must have been such a sad, scared sight sniffling and shaking.

 _‘’Egg.’’_ Slytherin hissed knowingly. _‘’Are you cold now? Did you not take my warning seriously.’’_

 _‘’Can a parselmouth be a muggleborn?’’_ Hermione asked. She didn’t want to be reprimanded. Tears welled in her eyes as she hiccupped. Her hair was turning dark, dark, dark – as that woman, yet again, lodged herself in her brain.

Slytherin looked at her gravely. He said nothing.

 _‘’Can it?’’_ Hermione swallowed down her tears and the snot that she should get rid of. If anyone came into the Common Room she would make a terrible vision. They would have so many things to tease her about. Hermione keened a cry that she couldn’t help. _‘’Please, long one, I have to know.’’_

 _‘’No.’’_ Slytheirn answered her.

Hermione felt bile travel up her throat. Her stomach lurched. She placed a hand across her mouth to stop herself from throwing up right then and there. Tom Riddle was telling the truth.

_‘’Long one, can a metamorph-‘’_

_‘’No, hatchling, it cannot. You are not born from muggles.’’_

Hermione faintly realised she was nodding. Her entire world turned upside down with this revelation and she tried to keep standing, even though her knees were weak and she felt like nothing could rattle her more.

 _‘’Long one, Tom Riddle called me his d-daughter.’’_ Hermione closed her eyes because she couldn’t look at the pained look Slytherin was giving her, she couldn’t bear to watch the pity. But the thing she couldn’t watch most was the fact spiralling in front of her, around her, within her – that her whole world was a **lie**. _‘’If what you say is true, then he has no reason to lie.’’_ Hermione didn’t sense any lies coming from the journal. _‘’W-who is he? Tom Riddle disappeared in 1950, but – but from some of the comments from the journal – it’s-‘’_ Hermione tried to breathe. She couldn’t. She couldn’t do anything anymore. The eyes inside her own head were spinning. ‘ _’Who is Tom Riddle?’’_

Slytherin looked pained to reveal this. It was as if he thought that Hermione knowing any of this was a burden far too great for a young child. But living in ignorance as half-baked as he the one she was now would only addle her. It was best that she knew everything: _‘’I met him again, a long time after he graduated. He came here for a job interview, but didn’t get it. His name, at the time, was **Lord Voldemort**.’’_

Hermione was very, very wrong. Her situation could get worse and had officially worsened. The lack of proper airflow caused her to fall, unable to keep herself upright anymore. Spots criss-crossed over her eyes and she soon fell into a darkness.

* * *

Abraxas and Voldemort had made up. They saw Narcissa smugly watching them across the dinner table. ‘’Did you two make up?’’

‘’Yes.’’ Voldemort said. He was pouring himself a glass of wine.

‘’Because Lord Voldemort finally properly apologized-‘’

‘’No.’’ Abraxas quickly said. He, too, was going for the wine.

Narcissa looked like a cat that had gotten her mouse, played with it, and even had the option to eat it. ‘’Because you and–‘’

‘’Yes.’’ Voldemort said, _curtly_. He looked down in his wine glass and drained it.

Things were finally beginning to look up for Lord Voldemort and he worried that exactly because of that fact – something somewhere was going terribly, horribly, irredeemably wrong.

Once he conveyed these thoughts to Abraxas, the man scoffed: ‘’Stop being such a pessimist. It isn’t good for your health.’’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a neat little gift to all of those who commented. Keep up the good work. This story has over 100 comments right now I pushed myself to give you this update today instead of later. FYI: I enjoy every single comment and re-read them when I'm feeling uninspired. So, I guess thank you for reading and letting me hear your voice~
> 
> \- here's a meme about this chapter: https://i.pinimg.com/originals/81/dd/9d/81dd9d887d77c24791bb3cf08848bc45.png
> 
> Edit: 31/07/2020 - Hiatus until I finish Retired Prometheus, a story that's much dearer to my heart. If you're interested to see something that's occupying me feel free to hop in::: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21718873/chapters/51806797


	9. Chapter 9

Pansy Parkinson was an only child. And because of this, she just happened to be a force not to be reckoned with. There was a thing, when it came to parents who had only one child –and while they did try and control their child, they ultimately failed at doing so and created tiny little spoiled monsters. Pansy Parkinson was twelve years old. She thought herself not so tiny or little anymore.

Millie, poor soul with a penchant for nurturing cats, Bulstrode was not an only child, so she just happened to have a follower’s mentality. This suited Pansy quite fine.

Daphne was not an only child, but she was an older sister and that created issues of their own entirely. Issues that Pansy did not want to delve into because she was sincerely happy not to have been forced into a Secondary Mother role as a child.

Tracey was just not very fun to play with. She was boring and down to earth and Pansy didn’t enjoy that at all. Which was a funny turn of events to see unravel before her when Tracey boring Davis came up to her, soaked in ink, startled, and hurrying through a squeaky explanation: ’’THERE’S SOMETHING OFF ABOUT THAT DIARY GRANGER’S GOT!’’

Ah, yes, Pansy thought back to their last roommate: Hermione Granger. A sucker for knowledge and a fiendishly foolish girl with no experience in the magical world. It was like watching a baby peafowl scuttle about without guidance. Pansy said peafowl because her family and Draco’s family were pushing for something to happen between them and she’d been gifted three peafowls by Lord Abraxas Malfoy. It was quite sweet and Pansy was growing up to be his next great peafowl successor. A good legacy to uphold. Peafowls were loud like Pansy could be. They irritated her mother just as much as Pansy irritated her.

’’Did you try and read it?’’ Pansy rolled her eyes. ’’She’s probably put on an enchantment to stop nosy people like you, Tracey.’’ It was good that Tracey had gotten to the diary first, else Pansy would have ended up covered from head to toe in ink and shrieking in bloody outrage, stomping her foot to the floor, and telling Pansy to do something about this!

Pansy sighed. She looked at her colourless nails and wished that they were painted because, really, this just wasn’t doing it for her. Painted nails exuded drama and theatricality. This was just a twelve year old girl’s attempt to being an adult. And she wasn’t an adult. No matter how much she might wish to be one. She was just a little girl with dreams and probably some underlining issue to address because, really, why else would she like bullying people and being mean to them? Though, really, that wasn’t the point of this tangent of thought.

What was the point was that Pansy stood from her armchair in the common room and asked Tracey to take her to the diary in order to assess the damage. ’’You’re blowing things out of proportion again, Tracey.’’ Tracey’s mother was an unspeakable and her father was a muggleborn. The former made Pansy be civil to Tracey, but the latter really made her want to cause the girl nothing but grief. It was just the natural order of things.

’’I am not! We ought to tell professor Snape about this, Pansy. It’s dark stuff, I’m telling you.’’

’’You wouldn’t know dark stuff if the bloody Dark Lord handed you an artefact and explicitly told you it was very dangerous and dark in nature.’’ Pansy’s goal in life was to become so mean that people were terrified to speak to her. She liked the quiet.

Tracey stomped her inky foot on the floor again and left a smear of it behind. She huffed. ’’I am serious! Stop being so high and mighty and listen to me.’’

Pansy rolled her eyes again and made an aggrieved noise in the back of her throat. ’’Oh, if I must.’’ She tried channelling Narcissa Malfoy’s voice and arrogance in that last one. That woman was a goddess that simply didn’t care about other people’s feelings. It was ingenious how she just happened to turn them on and off. Pansy aspired to be like Narcissa Malfoy. Why, with her level of poise and grace and skill, she might even lie to the Dark Lord’s face without any repercussions or fear!

They reached the offended area. It was their dormitory. A trail of ink led them to a pool of it. Inside this pool was a diary. It almost hissed at them when Pansy bent down to touch it. But when Pansy persevered and touched the damned thing it sprouted spidery, ink-made legs from the sides and slid past them, running away like mad.

Tracey jumped out of its way and shrieked. Pansy’s eyes widened as the diary sprayed her with ink and made its getaway out of the dormitory. Her smile reached her eyes. She took out her wand and tapped it twice on her palm. ’’Tracey, I take back all of the things I’ve said about you. This is the most exciting thing anyone’s ever brought to my attention.’’

Covered in even more ink, Tracey sagged. _’’Gee_ , I’m always happy to be of help.’’

’’Let’s gather the rest of the girls. We need to make a battle plan.’’ Then Pansy jumped with joy. ’’We’re going on a hunt! Oh it’s so exciting!’’

Tracey thinks that she prefers it when the most exciting things keep happening to Harry Potter. This is madness otherwise.

* * *

Hermione woke up, dazed, in the hospital wing. She’s fainted. Her eyes flickered all over the room to find that Madam Pomfrey is there, no dallying allowed, and had already told her that she will be staying the night for further examination. ’’Your magic was depleted to a terrifying degree. Something has drained you and we shall not rest until we find its source.’’

The diary. Hermione knew the source, but her tongue turned to ash and she couldn’t speak. Her head spun hard. She couldn’t believe the day she’d had. The things she’d learned from Tom Riddle. No, she ought to call him differently, shouldn’t she? Lord Voldemort, He Who Must Not Be Named. The Dark Lord. Her –

The word was too terrible to speak into the world.

Madam Pomfrey was talking to her, assuring her that she won’t be missing too much of class and that she’ll be able to keep up just fine. She was a bright young girl and that wasn’t any cause of alarm. This was all going to end and she was going to come back to the life she knew before this accidental tragedy befell her. Hermione didn’t think any of that was true.

She got handed potions to drink to bolster her strength. ’’You’ll be fine, dearie!’’

Hermione sipped on the potion slowly, as instructed, and thought that none of this spelled ’fine’ to her. This was torture, she thought, blatant and unapologetic _torture_.

* * *

Millie swung a baseball bat. She almost hit a vase that would have shattered and screamed for Snape’s attention. Daphne tapped her baseball bat gently against the floor, testing the waters of this foreign weapon in her grasp.

Tracey had conjured one for each girl to equip herself with, saying: ’’We are twelve. What spells do we even know? We just need to subdue the damned thing without alerting anyone. Dad says that these pack a strong punch.’’

Pansy wouldn’t hear of talking to adults. She needed power over Granger and this was an opportunity she couldn’t miss. Why was Good Girl Granger in possession of something so foul and dastardly? It didn’t make any sense, but she would get to the bottom of this when she captured that diary and bashed it a couple of times.

They made battle strategy and vowed that they were going have lots and lots of fun.

’’it’s good that it’s a weekend.’’ Daphne said. ’’I couldn’t bear to get Snape on our case about missing class. That man’s touched, I swear.’’

’’Merlin, you sound like Granger when you mention school, Daph.’’ Pansy was a rebel at heart and she loved having this opportunity to showcase just how big of a rebel she was. She held the bat in her hands and tested out the weight of it when she swung easily. It would do the job. It wasn’t anything spectacular, mind, nothing how she’d expected this showdown of Girls vs. Dark Artefact to go down, but it would do the job very well and, really, that was the only thing that mattered.

They cornered the diary in a corner. Pansy glowed with pride and swung first, but the damned thing escaped and mocked them while doing so, she was certain. ’’Block the exit!’’

Millicent took the task up like Sisyphus. ’’Pansy, I’m seriously rethinking our friendship.’’

The diary halted in front of Millicent, unsure of how to deal with her. Millie didn’t swing, but Tracey did. She swung with a vengeance only girls whose whole wardrobe was dunked in ink. ’’AAAAA!’’ She shouted atop her lungs like a barbarian of old and slammed the bat forward.

It hit the diary, causing it to erupt in a sea of dazed ink. Pansy’s victorious cry was too soon, however, as the diary lunged forward towards a small hole in a wall. It almost looked like a mouse hole, but it was a fact that with the amount of cats at Hogwarts, mice were wary of stepping anywhere near the damned castle. It slicked itself up with ink and fled.

Pansy did something her mother hated: ’’FUCK!’’ She expressed herself.

Millie didn’t lose hope, however. She had gotten a taste for violence and craved more. ’’It’s in the walls. We’ll find it. My cousin Alphonse can teach me a locating charm through firecall.’’

Pansy ground her teeth together and slammed the bat hard against the ground a few times in order to let loose some steam. ’’I HAD IT! I could have had Hermione Granger grovelling at my feet!’’

Tracey narrowed her eyes. Hunting this fiendish diary was personal to her. It had ruined her favourite shoes. ’’That thing needs to die. Hermione Granger’s favour or no.’’ She turned to Daphne, who was, very much disinterested in this. ’’Don’t you think so, Daph?’’

Daphne shrugged. ’’I think everyone needs some cocoa after all of this. I’ll take a shower and be done with this.’’

Pansy cried. ’’No, come on, Daphne. It’s the four of us against the world. We made a pact and everything when we were little.’’

Daphne rolled her eyes now. Hers was much more sophisticated than Pansy’s. ’’You’re clingy, Pans. It doesn’t look good.’’

Pansy’s voice went higher as she looked at Millie and mimicked Daphne: ’’You’re clingy, Pansy. It doesn’t loooook goood.’’

Daphne shut her eyes and scowled: ’’You’re forgetting how big Hogwarts is. This thing could be anywhere by now. We have no way to track it, even with a locating charm. They’re more complicated than just aiming your wand and wishing really hard for something to happen. It’s not done. The Gods are never so merciful. If you knew anything about anything you’d know this and I wouldn’t have to explain how little chance we’ve actually got of finding that diary.’’

And then, as if some force out there that controlled the universe wished to make things very dramatically ironic, a high pitched scream shouted from very, very nearby. ’’WHAT IN SLYTHERIN’S NAME IS THAT THING?!’’

Pansy’s eyes lit with cheer. She took up her baseball bat and shouted: ’’HELP’S COMING, DRACO!’’

Daphne and Millie and Tracey followed after, muttering amongst each other: ’’If Draco doesn’t sing for the Frog Choir, I’ll personally call his father to tell him about what kind of voice he has.’’

* * *

’’I think you should send a letter.’’

’’A letter?’’ Voldemort was, of course, bedridden and found the taste of soup appalling. Abraxas took this to mean that the man wanted broth. It was, somehow, even worse. He stared at the mixture on the tray on his lap and sighed dejectedly as he scooped some of it up on a spoon to feed himself. He had a couple of good days, threatening days, only to fall apart at the most minor of inconvenience at the most inconvenient of times. Abraxas delighted in nursing him. He relished in lording over his health and good, strong fortitude.

’’Mhm, a letter. It is in good taste.’’

’’I am not sending a letter to muggles.’’

’’Send it directly to _her_ then.’’ Abraxas scoffed at Voldemort’s reluctance.

’’I shall not contact the child. She isn’t being harmed. She isn’t being starved. Really, it is already an improvement to my childhood.’’

’’Anything is an improvement to your childhood, to be fair. Didn’t you once tell me they locked you out in winter and you had to sleep in a den with snakes?’’

’’I must have been very drunk to divulge that.’’ Voldemort grimaced at the broth. He felt another fever coming on. ’’I’m sick.’’ He stated, as if Abraxas didn’t know this already. Abraxas patted his cheek comfortingly.

’’I shall get you something to help with that.’’

’’Do you know where to look?’’ It had been such a long time since Voldemort felt himself be this frank with anyone. Bellatrix came close, but she was his general. They rarely spoke about things that didn’t deal with battle and philosophy. Abraxas was interested in neither so Voldemort had had to adapt. He adapted with anyone he spoke to, really. It was a defence mechanism. Being ill and looking back on his life was going to kill him faster than any political adversary.

Abraxas scoffed at his question. ’’Of course I know where to look. Really, Tom, the nerve of you to forget who helped you pick some of the places.’’

’’Not all of them.’’

’’No, not all of them. You are as paranoid as you are handsome.’’

Voldemort, half pale and near death, didn’t think he looked handsome at all. Was that an improvement on his paranoia then? He almost asked, but a cough overcame him.

’’Ta-ta!’’ Abraxas spun in place and disapparated.

’’Bastard.’’ Voldemort whispered as he calmed his cough. ’’Always ready to flee at the slightest inconvenience.’’

He found himself thinking about his daughter, wondering if she even wanted to meet him.

* * *

Hermione wished to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. She wished to scream, but found that screaming in a hospital was very uncivilized and might intrude on the other patients’ attempts at getting better. She was very British and thought that being polite was much more important than holding her mental health together. She screamed internally, though. And her hair switched lots of shades, to signify the wretched panic dancing in her heart.

And then, lastly, when she looked at herself in a mirror in the bathroom, she noted that it was black hair. It took all of her mental fortitude for it to return to the same bushy Granger hair. That was her hair. Not this black hair that kept cropping up with lost memories of her birth mother. A sob escaped her, but no tears came still. It was a dry sort of cry with her shoulders shaking and her hair flaring, yet again, with all of the colours of the world in a blink of an eye. Her emotions were so strong that they bled into her magic and the mirror cracked, horizontally, right across from her. She looked at herself in the crack and hiccupped. The two halves of her were divided. One had the black hair, while the other the untameable mass of curls.

Hermione closed her eyes and inhaled sharply, exhaling slowly. She forced herself to calm her breathing, remembering how it was like to feel helpless and teased in school. Hogwarts was supposed to be different. She had friends here. She wouldn’t be her own bully. She refused to be her own enemy in this world of new discoveries.

Discoveries, that, to be fair, were definitely terrifying. She opened her eyes and even though the crack was there, she looked most like herself: bushy hair, brown eyes, and her mother’s nose. But noooo, that wasn’t her mother. Not her birth mother at least. Hermione blinked a few times and left back to her bed. She couldn’t look at herself in the mirror any longer. It was very difficult. She curled in her hospital bed, pulled the covers over her head, and wished that today would end.

She, also, felt very lonely. And not at the same time. Like, she wanted someone to visit her, but she didn’t want it to be Pansy because she was mean. Hermione, to take her mind off of her recent identity crisis, thought about what the girls from her dorm might be up to.

* * *

’’TAKE IT, THEO! JUMP ON IT, FOR GOODNESS’ SAKE MAN!’’

Theodore Nott was trying to wrangle a diary that was a dark artefact. Draco had fainted. They were in the boy’s dorms and they didn’t have the time to get into the fact that girls could go to the boy’s dormitory and the boys couldn’t go into theirs because they were, just a tad, busy with hunting a dark artefact and being heroes and heroines from old stories.

Blaise Zabini was throwing bigger books at the diary, hoping that it would concede. ’’Take that!’’ He said as he threw a transfiguration textbook at it. All it did was anger the diary further. It hissed, like a tea kettle. Or like a parselmouth, but Pansy wasn’t paying proper attention to discern the linguistic difference between a tea kettle and a parselmouth.

Daphne was aiming her wand at the thing. ’’I’ll cast stupefy at it.’’

’’Do you know how to cast that spell correctly or will you blow us all up?’’

Daphne said she hadn’t decided which route she wished to take.

She aimed, fired, and missed.

The diary squeaked victoriously as it scuttled away. But Tracey Davis, boring, boring Tracey Davis, decided that she was going to do something foolhardy for a change. She jumped on the diary, stomach first, and wrapped her hands around it. ’’I’VE GOT IT!’’

An older student who didn’t ask questions was bribed with sweets in order to make a jar to stuff the diary in. It was a big jar. One that Pansy paraded around gleefully.

’’You won’t tell professor Snape, will you?’’ Tracey, badass, Davis asked the older student. She shrugged and said that she really couldn’t care less as long as they finally shut up and let her study for her NEWTs.

Pansy, like a deranged person she was at heart, tapped the glass and laughed triumphantly. ’’Not so tough now, are you, little diary?’’

The diary hissed, trapped inside its glass cage. Bested by twelve year old girls had to be a new low, even for a dark artefact as silly as a diary.

* * *

Lord Voldemort decided that he was going to sneak out of the master bedroom and go past the watchful eye of elves. He wanted some fresh air and had to admit that venturing out into the Malfoy estate, forested as it was, was a pleasant change to his usual routine. He walked past many elm trees, rolling his eyes at the flagrancy of their belief; glided past a few willow and yew and orange trees that denoted weird characters all around. The Malfoys buried their stock and then planted their wand wood to grow out of the grave. One day, Abraxas would have his grave give birth to a willow tree as magnificent as he was. Voldemort didn’t enjoy thinking back on that.

The Blacks had different rituals for burials. They were more muggle as funny as that was to think. He’d once said this to Walburga and had his hearing shattered by the woman for the insult he’d inadvertently dealt her. Once a Black died they buried them in a grave much alike muggles, but they buried them with their wand to take to the afterlife. The Malfoys didn’t believe in such a practise. They were of fairy stock, themselves, and had strange traditions.

Voldemort didn’t enjoy thinking about death, at all, but as he found himself immersed in the many trees of Abraxas’ family, he had to wonder what it would feel like to bury his own child. A grimace adorned him then. What a morbid man he’d become.

There was no sign of Abraxas yet. And that didn’t worry Voldemort, but it would be very unfortunate if he had to go and search for the man’s body himself and slug him about and then hold a speech at his funeral and mourn him. Voldemort blinked his crimson eyes a couple of times and decided that he’d spent too much time breathing in the fresh air. Off to bed with him.

He didn’t disapparate. He walked. Because the exercise would do him good and he really didn’t want to throw up broth over himself. That’d be a bit undignified.

Abraxas was scared when he saw him. Not of him. Never of him. Voldemort didn’t know whether he was charmed by that boldness or irritated. It didn’t hurt to have a couple of people unafraid of him around, but he fed off of fear much alike a Dementor did and he felt starved of it.

’’What is it?’’ He asked, casting a small warming charm on himself as he was shaky from the breeze outside burrowing deep within his bones.

Abraxas tossed him a ring. Nay, _the_ ring. Voldemort put it on of his slender, long fingers and admired it. It suited him, even after decades of not wearing it. A sudden mood struck him and he grinned. He took the ring off his finger and joked about: ’’Oh, _yes_ , Abraxas _. Of course_ I shall marry you.’’ And he put it on his ring finger and let out a small snicker to himself.

’’I’m happy you’re in a good mood, mon chou.’’ Abraxas not being a joking mood truly meant something sinister was afoot.

Voldemort looked at him, peered deep into his silver eyes, regarded him like he did a subject worth dissecting into a thousand pieces and watching him squirm in pain as he did so. ’’What’s happened?’’

’’The cave was empty.’’ Abraxas tossed him a letter her said he’d found there.

Voldemort read it with shaky hands. Whether they were shaky from the cold, the illness, or the anger coursing through him and mixing altogether into a hideous concoction was difficult to tell. **_’’Regulus.’’_**

Abraxas whistled. ’’It appears so. Such a shame, too. You _are_ family. It’s always bad business when family strike each other down.’’

Voldemort was discomforted at the reminder of him being tied to the Blacks. He’d never much liked them. Too passionate. Too opinionated. Too old. Too Old Money. Too out of his sphere of influence. Too afraid of Walburga Black to take notice of him. Gods, how he hated that banshee of a woman. She’d always looked down on him for his upbringing and blood. Called him Slytherin’s Mudblood to her dying breath and even during! But he’d outlived the nasty fiend and once he was better he’d go to her grave to gloat!

’’I suppose I’ll write Cygnus.’’ Abraxas drawled. He wasn’t fond of the man.

Voldemort turned to look at Abraxas as if he’d spoken a ghost’s name. ’’Cygnus Black is _alive_?’’

’’Why wouldn’t he be?’’ Abraxas shook his head. ’’Honestly, mon chou, he’s the only one of the Blacks that always kept his head down. Andromeda had to have gotten that level headedness from _someone_.’’

’’Andromeda’s the runaway?’’ Voldemort only remembered the young girl as she’d fled from her family’s expectations. It was very brave of her. He didn’t know what she’d turned herself into afterwards.

’’Yes, she’s the middle child.’’ Abraxas, an only child, couldn’t fathom such a terrible fate on any of his offspring. ’’Dreadful business.’’

Voldemort nodded. He blinked again, though, when he remembered that Cygnus Black was alive. _’’Really?’’_ He poured all of his disbelief into the question, unable to stop himself. He scrunched up his face at Abraxas, asking him to call this a fib. Abraxas nodded, saying that the man lived in Wales.

Walburga had always favoured London more than any of her siblings and cousins. She’d ushered any competition away from Grimmauld Place and told them to scatter about their less known properties. Cygnus had picked their Welsh country home for himself and the rest of his family.

’’Cygnus Black is alive.’’ Voldemort repeated. Then dread overcame him faster than any fever. ’’Don’t tell him I’m alive. He’s quite cross with my sleeping with Bellatrix still. I would prefer to avoid any form of confrontation. Just ask him about the elf and if he’ll give him to you to interrogate.’’

’’You and he are the same age. Your bed was right next to his during Hogwarts. Really, I’d be cross with you too if you’d tried anything with Lucius.’’

 _’’She_ **seduced** **_me_**!’’

’’Remember that one time when Cygnus changed his face to look exactly like yours as he pulled that prank on the Gryffindors and landed you in detention? Oh that was a riot.’’ Abraxas chortled to himself, not caring at all for the way Voldemort was growing exhausted by each passing moment.

’’Yes, yes, what a wonderful detention with Dumbledore that was.’’ Voldemort ran a hand through his hair. ’’I’ll be retiring now.’’

’’For the night or for the conceivable future?’’

’’The night, Abraxas.’’

’’I shall join you in a bit.’’ Abraxas rose and lowered his brows enticingly.

’’I have a headache.’’ Voldemort lied. He went up the stairs and ran a finger over the ring absentmindedly. He thought about family heirlooms and that this was the only thing he had to show off his whole lineage. He might reach out to the child, if only to sate his curiosity properly – that whole meeting at Hogwarts was rushed and full of desperation. Or perhaps he shouldn’t meddle in her affairs. She seemed perfectly intact for someone with his genes.

He finally settled one: ’’She’s fine. She doesn’t need any more interference in her life. Meeting me would do her no good.’’

* * *

Hermione had to emerge from her blanket sanctuary. Madam Pomfrey wouldn’t let any of her patients be closed off like this. She attempted to chat with Hermione, but it only made things worse. Hermione didn’t feel like playing along with this whole small talk nonsense.

The day came when Hermione was let go and told that she didn’t know exactly what had caused her to faint like this or have her magic weakened, but that she was good to go now and that she ought to be mindful of her actions. ’’You never know what might be cursed, dearie.’’

Hermione cracked a smile. Madam Pomfrey had no idea.

Once she reached the Slytherin Common Room she was met with an intervention of sorts. Or an ambush. Yes, definitely, an ambush was more apt. Pansy Parkinson was gloating. ’’Well well well well well well well.’’

’’That’s too many ’well’s.’’ Millie whispered.

Pansy ignored her. ’’Look what we have here.’’

Hermione yawned. She was very tired of all of this. She just wished to sleep and worry about where the diary might have gone at a later time. Her birth father was Lord Voldemort. Whatever this peer pressure situation was going to be about certainly wasn’t going to measure up to the catastrophe raging in her mind and heart.

Oh but.

Wait.

Actually.

Tracey Davis rattled a big jar with the diary in it.

It might be somehow worse than Hermione’s feelings. She squeaked: ’’What are you going to do with it?’’

Daphne crossed her arms and spoke over Pansy: ’’Explain what it is and why you have it first. If it’s dangerous we’ll report it. If it isn’t, we’ll hang it over your head for the rest of your life and make you our servant.’’

Pansy turned around towards Daphne and said, through gritted teeth: ’’What is wrong with you? You can’t just say it like that. Where’s the pizazz? The drama? The nuance? Daphne, leave the talking to me from now on, okay.’’

Daphne rolled her eyes. ’’Ugh, fineee.’’

Hermione decided to take a seat. She looked directly at the diary and, as if sensing her presence, it stilled in the jar and waited on her for instruction. Or the bastard just wished to have a front row seat to yet another fainting session.

’’It’s an object which has a connection to Salazar Slytherin.’’ Hermione, known parselmouth and Slytherin conversationalist, knew how to lie. She was bad at it, yes, but she was trying and she was getting good at it with practise. And she hadn’t even lied, really! There were rumours she’d heard about Voldemort being descendant of Slytherin (oh god, so was she then) and technically since this was a part of Voldemort, it, too, was in connection to the Founder.

Millie bought it. ’’Seems legit. Though, what is it?’’

’’It’s a diary.’’

’’Not his.’’ Pansy said. ’’Back then they didn’t have such leather notebooks. You’re lying to us.’’

’’I am not.’’ Hermione was tired. She wanted to sleep and never wake up. Or if she did wake up she wanted all of this to be over and for her to come back to her parents and hug them for a very, very long time. ’’It belongs to his...’’ She didn’t know what to say, ’’apprentice.’’

’’Oh?’’ Daphne snorted. ’’Must have been a recent apprentice. Hard to accomplish this when someone’s dead for hundreds of years. What’s the apprentice’s _name_?’’

Hermione rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Her head was beginning to become painful. She inhaled and exhaled sharply, shallowly. The hospital wing was so quiet compared to this place of cacophony.

Their interrogation was interrupted by Draco Malfoy, Blaise Zabini, and Theodore Nott coming in. They had helped in subduing the diary and wanted a proper explanation too.

’’What’s she said so far?’’ Draco, always curious, asked quickly. He looked to Pansy for information and she gave it to him. He nodded and turned back to Hermione, then, in anticipation.

’’It’s a cursed diary.’’ Hermione said, having no other plan but to stop lying and tell the truth. Whatever it was that would wait for her after this admission it was better to rip it off like a bandaid. ’’It belongs to Tom Marvolo Riddle.’’

’’That’s what the TMR is.’’ Blaise whispered. He looked at Theodore, whose father was both a Knights of Walpurgis and a Death Eater and just watched as the boy sighed one of those sighs of comprehension.

’’Otherwise known as Voldemort.’’ Hermione spitefully didn’t tack on the lord. Bloody god complex shouldn’t be nurtured. The diary hissed. Hermione hissed back amongst the shocked faces of the Slytherin bunch.

Theodore went over to Pansy and picked up the diary. ’’All right. Well, _my_ father, for a change, will be hearing about this. The Dark Lord’s diary – that’s kind of funny,’’ he snickered, spreading the dumbfounded joy throughout the group, ’’- okay, no, no, we need to return this.’’

’’He’s dead.’’ Pansy said. ’’Everyone knows that. We don’t want to accept it, of course, because things were so much better when he was around, but it’s true. Harry Potter killed him as a baby.’’

’’My mother says he’s just waiting for the opportune moment to strike the mudbloods where it hurts.’’

Hermione told Daphne to cut the slur throwing out. The tips of her curls were red like hellfire. Daphne apologized without really apologizing. It was as good as it got.

Draco Malfoy, who’s been told by both his father to snatch a diary from Ginny Weasley that has TMR on it, realised that he had to discreetly tell Theodore that he ought to be the one to bring this back to HIS father, but then Theodore got kind of testy with him, how all twelve year old boys did. ’’You take the credit for everything! Give _me_ something exciting for a change.’’

Poor Draco didn’t know how to articulate the fact that the Dark Lord was threatening his father if he didn’t get the diary back. Not to mention that the Dark Lord had threatened him, too! If he wasn’t nice to Hermione Granger.

Hermione Granger who was a metamorphagus how his cousin Nymphadora Tonks was. How his grandfather Cygnus was.

Hermione Granger who was a parselmouth how Harry bloody Potter was. How the Dark Lord was.

Draco looked at Hermione and offered her his hand, really hoping someone might shake it without making him feel bad. ’’If you want them to stop harassing you, I’ll tell them.’’

Hermione didn’t shake his hand. She narrowed her eyes. Eyes, that flickered between shades of brown and black and then silver like his own. ’’Why would you help me?’’

’’Yes, Draco, what gives?’’

Draco shrugged. ’’She’s a Slytherin.’’ The very last thing he wanted to tell them was that he’d been told in not so many words to befriend Hermione Granger or face the Dark Lord’s ire. ’’And, she probably found the damned diary in the library on one of her many rounds. She isn’t from our world and mistook it for a friend. We all know how _He_ can be cruel.’’

Nods all around. They could see that Hermione was nothing more than a victim of a prank their Lord had planted decades ago. Theodore clutched onto the jar with brute strenght. Draco told him that he could take the next one. Whatever else they found, Theodore could be daddy’s little helper and take all of the heroic credit. But Draco needed this. ’’My _grandfather_ needs to hear about this.’’

And evoking the presence and name of Abraxas Hyperion Malfoy was differently accepted than when Lucius Abraxas Malfoy’s name was evoked. For the former there was understanding that this was serious. The latter had become some sort of catchphrase.

Hermione looked at Draco and once everyone dispersed, going their separate ways, she thanked him.

’’It’s not very nice to thank people who’ve got fairy blood. I might take offence.’’ Draco joked. He offered his hand to her again and she took it this time. He smiled at her. Her eyes weren’t silver anymore. But for the briefest moment they were a shade of Black that Draco had only seen in his mother’s eyes. He turned away.

’’Is he alive?’’ Hermione asked him.

Draco was going to say no, but he felt the sharp prick of Hermione’s wand press against his heart. ’’Is he alive?’’ She repeated. Her eyes were going to the diary in the jar he was holding with one hand. The diary hissed. Saying something, because Hermione hissed back at it and the thing squirmed in the jar with its spidery, slimy, inky legs.

’’Y-yes.’’ Draco whispered. He held the jar tighter when he noticed how hard it was hitting against the walls.

’’Tell me where he is.’’ Hermione almost lapsed into parseltongue. Her tongue burned with questions. Her fingertips burned at how close she could feel in control of her situation since she’d fainted. A pain in her heart spread and it would forever remain there, she was certain, reminding her of a lie she’d been told all of her life – but a lie was misinformation. Hermione rather enjoyed getting accurate facts about subjects that interested her. And this, getting to the bottom of her own newly shaken identity, was something that interested her very, very much.

’’I can’t tell you where he is.’’ His voice wavered. ’’Grandfather’s made me promise I would never do that.’’

Hermione’s nostrils flared, but she was making progress. She’d forgotten that these people, these housemates of hers to be precise, all came from families that loved the Dark Lord. That revered the man as if he were some god of theirs that came to bless them with gifts and honeyed promises.

’’Do you know _how to get to him_?’’

’’Yes.’’ Draco squirmed as the wand pressed harder. Hermione was a genius. She devoured books like he ate sweets.

’’Can you get to him?’’

’’I could...’’ Draco didn’t want to get to him. He didn’t want to get to him at all. The man scared him. Even after Abraxas explained to him that he can’t hurt him and that he’d never hurt him because he didn’t want to anger Abraxas. Even then Draco was scared of the wizard that was living rent free in their manor.

’’Good.’’ Hermione swiftly pushed Draco, disbalancing him and causing him to throw the jar down. It shattered and the diary sprang free. Hermione cast petrificus totalus on it. She picked it up next and said, her voice frayed at the end of each word because she was working off of adrenaline. ’’Tell him I have something of his and that I’ll trade it for information. **_In person._** ’’

The diary crooned, Draco could tell – because it hissed the same way he’d heard the Dark Lord hiss at Abraxas a rare few times. Hermione looked down at the diary in a conflicted manner. There was a world of questions she wished to ask it, but she shoved it into the bag she’d had with her during her stay in the hospital wing, and turned around on her heel to go back to the dorm. ’’We can be friends after you do that.’’

Draco was really beginning to hate this year. He wouldn’t be telling his father all about this, sensing that it might be a very sensitive subject. But he would be sending a letter to his grandfather to give the Dark Lord.

Oh Merlin, Draco thought, what kind of situation had he gotten himself into?


	10. Chapter 10

Cygnus Black wasn’t someone to be trifled with. His immediate family was Walburga Black and if he’d survived her, he could survive anyone and make them pay in a wide variety of ways that befitted the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

He lived in Wales of all places, electing not to challenge Walburga’s hold over Grimmauld Place. She’d given it to her son to inherit, motherly and full of poisinous love until the very end. One of the sons had died (this Cygnus was certain, because a Black had a sixth sense about these sort of morbid things, they were the practitioners of Thanatos and Hades). But even in Wales, Cygnus knew what to ask, who to ask, and where to find answers about things that interested him against his better judgement. Since his dear Druella’s death he’d become interested in his daughters.

Narcissa was his youngest flower. The only one not named after a star. Mostly because she’d been born under an unlucky star and they’d wished to avoid naming her after it. Nasty business with astrologers. Cygnus remembered threatening their lives for such slander, too blinded with worry. Druella wasn’t a Black by birth and she didn’t understand the importance of stars. She asked if she could name her, given how Cygnus had named both his eldest star and most troubled middle child. He’d allowed it. She’d named her after a flower and a personality disorder. Fitting, overall for a Black.

She had married an unlucky boy with an unlucky father and an even more unlucky would-be-lord parading about as someone important. Cygnus remembered Tom Riddle from school as powerful, but ultimately very naive to think he could be a match for Old Money and Old Blood. Toujours Pur were the words of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Narcissa had abided by them in marriage.

Draco Malfoy was her son and his grandson. Cygnus changed his hair to be platinum when around him and straightened out his curls to amuse the little baby, but none of the changes were found in him. He was not a metamorphagus. Weak blood, he’d said. Unlucky blood, he’d wished to say but knew that Narcissa would cry at them. And she was his only daughter, his biddable little girl that loved him still.

Andromeda was his middle child. She was born under a lucky star. He named her Andromeda because she was born in autumn when the constellation was most prominent. It was an easy name to pick and not one he’d dwelled too much on. Perhaps he should have taken a longer look into her chart and seen the stars for a more suitable name. All while nomen est omen, Andromeda was not a woman in chains, seeing her family as the ones that had chained her up when all they did was have her purest interest at heart.

She’d married a lucky mudblood (to have her, to even witness someone of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, let alone marry one of them), and she’d had a lucky child. A halfblood, a terrible, horrible mixture of worlds that ought to never mix, but she existed as proof that his daughter had betrayed her family without a care.

Nymphadora Tonks was lucky because she could morph and shift her appearance just as he could. It pained him to have a grandchild that could do this and couldn’t do it with him. A gift he’d hoped to pass onto his family only for it to pass onto an inaccessible one. Well, he could always swallow his pride and go there to make amends, but that was ridiculous. The lucky girl was going to be an auror, his sources said. Nymphadora was a powerful name. His daughter had done better with naming her than he had with her.

And lastly there was the most painful child to recall: Bellatrix. His brightest star. His eldest star. It pained him to think of her rotting away in Azkaban. A few times he’d wished to visit her, but he couldn’t find the nerve to come there and see the conditions she lived all while knowing he did not have influence to get her out, to alleviate any of that discomfort. She had the strongest blood out of his children. His warrior child. His wonderful heir and proud bearer of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Walburga’s children were weaklings compared to his shining star. Everyone knew that the true heir of that family would be Bellatrix. But she could not keep her name. She was a woman and that had always irked Cygnus. Sirius Black, a blood traitor, a creature breeder, an infernal thorn in the side of many pure individual had been given an honour that he did not deserve.

She’d married a powerful man with powerful blood. Rodolphus Lestrange was a proper young man for his Bellatrix. Cygnus couldn’t have been prouder of the match. But his warrior child was headstrong. He’d named her with purpose, instilling in her the belief that nobody could tame the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. That nobody could ever go against what she thought to be true and proper. But, he’d pushed himself in a trap then with that. Bellatrix was headstrong and wouldn’t take his counsel, wouldn’t listen to reason. She’d joined a **_war_**. Regulus had followed after her, always seeing her as an authority figure, as someone who could stand up to Walburga Black and not be afraid of her or her wand.

There had been a child. With a man that Cygnus abhorred. He was dirty blooded. A dark creature; because what was a parselmouth if not the filthiest creation known to mage kind? There was no room for them in the wizarding world, decadent monsters that couldn’t be people, which hissed and snarled and ate blood and cannibalized human beings – they did not deserve a glance, let alone the whole world as Tom Riddle wished to have. Arriviste. Bastard. Mudblood. All of the things they’d called him and he’d endured it all under the patronage of the Malfoy family. They welcomed halfbloods, but Cygnus would not. The child was dirty and he’d told Bellatrix as much that she was better off drowning it in a bath, or if she couldn’t bring herself to do so to allow him the liberty of such an arduous task. It was nothing more than a chore to him, but it would save her from the shame this child would bring her and her family. It was born under a clouded sky. There were no stars in sight.

To appease him Bellatrix had named the child after a constellation, after a star to signify that the child was hers and that the child was his grandchild. Cygnus hated the child and he hated the man that had forced Bellatrix into having it. What kind of man didn’t cast a contraceptive charm, for Merlin and Nimue’s sakes?

There had been a child, but there was no more child. Tom Riddle was dead. Bellatrix was in prison. The child had been killed by Dumbledore. Narcissa had been in tears, the sensitive unlucky girl. Anything that was put in her care would turn to ash and dwindle quickly.

Well, Cygnus had revelled for only a short while. Come Draco’s first year he’d come across three sources telling him of parselmouths and metamorphagi at Hogwarts. The child had lived. She went by Hermione and it was a proper name for someone born under no star. It suited her far better than the one Bellatrix had chosen out of grief.

Cygnus’ sources told him that Narcissa was seen fraternizing with the muggles tasked with taking care of a child that was not their own. A child so dirty and infested deserved to be brought up in a hovel like the ones Drs. Granger offered.

And if the _child_ had lived.

 _Well_.

Abraxas knocked fifteen times. Cygnus’ elf opened the door and bowed to him, announcing him: ’’Lord Abraxas Malfoy, Master Cygnus.’’

’’Cygnus, darling man! It has been too long.’’ He wore a happy grin as he sauntered about a home uninvited and unexpected. It showed how much the Malfoy line had watered down because a fairy’s child could not so casually walk in without the host’s explicit permission and offer of hospitality. Cygnus thought them all deranged and whispered under his breath the words: fairy fuckers. The Malfoys were nouveau riche and they would forver remain beneath the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

Cygnus peered at the man in question and squinted at the ungodly combination of colours he wore. The Malfoy line were practitioners of Persephone and so, for the sake of their mutual understanding, he forced himself to be _civil_. ’’Not long enough, I fret.’’

Abraxas chortled, delighted. Or he was good at faking delight. To think that once upon a time Walburga was supposed to marry him instead of Orion. Cygnus couldn’t imagine her letting Abraxas dress like this. He couldn’t imagine her allowing Tom Riddle into her home and into her bed, either. She’d calculated the risks and chosen not to be the other woman in her own marriage.

’’Are you well, my good fellow?’’ Abraxas sat next to Cygnus on one of the chaise longues. He was grinning from ear to ear.

’’Are you on something again?’’ Cygnus felt the need to ask. Abraxas had had a turbulent relationship with cocaine during the 60s.

Abraxas laughed even higher. It was like listening to a peacock screech all day long. Cygnus wished that he could tell the man to leave, but his daughter lived in his home and it would do him well to be polite for her sake. A flower among birds.

’’I’m in need of an elf!’’

’’Buy one. They’re cheap and biddable. If not biddable enough, there are educators all around Britain willing to put them in their place for a laughable fee.’’ Cygnus didn’t enjoy playing coy around people anymore. It was a fun and hilarious game when young and full bon vivre. Now, he found no joy in it. He simply wanted to be frank with people. And Abraxas was not frank. He was an ommiter and a liar. But Cygnus, a practitioner of the Mind Arts (Mind Magic is Black Magic, after all), decided that he’d nonchalantly try his hand at reading Abraxas’ mind. But the fink had come prepared. He wore ostentatious sunglasses indoors, as if that wasn’t obvious enough, and said that it was because of pink-eye. For a moment Cygnus grimaced.

’’I cannot just buy one. I need someone trained and perfect. How about one of the elves you aren’t using? I’ll even borrow it. See, I shall have it returned to you.’’

Cygnus truly wondered how someone as terribly silly as Abraxas Malfoy was a force not to be reckoned with. It didn’t make a lick of sense. Though, he was like one of those colourful frogs that killed just by having skin to skin contact. He couldn’t forget that the animal kingdom was a cruel place. ’’What is this about?’’

Abraxas floundered for a moment. There was something specific he couldn’t tell him, then. Cygnus grinned like a shark. ’’Really, Cygnus, there isn’t anything hidden or untoward. Dobby is having difficulties doing the work and Antoinette needs an elf to take to France every once in a while. What’s that silly little elf of Walburga’s? She’s dead – she doesn’t need it!’’

’’That elf, Kreacher,’’ Cygnus barred his teeth as he said the name, enjoying the way Abraxas was flaunting his arms about in distress, the way he kept edging Cygnus to speak and relax and slip up and give him what he wanted, ’’is not mine to give to anyone. He belonged to Walburga, then Regulus, and then the ones Regulus and Walburga entrusted to take care of Grimmauld Place.’’

Abraxas tilted his head. ’’Sirius Black is imprisoned for murdering people.’’

Cygnus scoffed. ’’That boy’s innocent of that. He deserves to rot for his other crimes. No, I am not talking about Sirius. Well, **Walburga** named him as her eldest boy, of course. But it’s Bellatrix that Regulus named. Delphini _Regina_ Black was a compliment he couldn’t quite shake.’’

’’I hadn’t known she named her daughter after him.’’ Abraxas furrowed his brows. Regulus as the youngest had always followed Bellatrix, as the eldest, like a little duckling. But he’d always thought Bellatrix to have humoured him for the sake of their family. Abraxas was bad at reading Blacks, he admitted.

’’From my understanding, that coward wasn’t with her in the birthing room and Bellatrix had gotten all rights to the name.’’ Cygnus sneered condescendingly. He’d been with Druella for all three of his daughters’ births. To do otherwise was a sign of ill breeding. ’’What do you want with Kreacher?’’

’’Your nephew was a traitor.’’

Cygnus had a feeling that this wasn’t about Sirius. ’’Good for him. May his soul rest in splendour that befits his worldly actions.’’

Abraxas fumed. He lowered his glasses to give him a piece of his mind, but Cygnus was quicker and caused the Malfoy to fall down and scream at the potent mind attack. Cygnus smiled. He and his family were at the top of the Twenty-Eight for longer than the Malfoy name existed. Someone like Abraxas cannot stand a chance against him and his legilimency. It was inborn in them, to varying degrees, of course. Sirius used it to win card games. Narcissa used it to lie. Cygnus used it to _hurt_.

’’So, he’s alive.’’ Cygnus all but purred. ’’How interesting, Abraxas.’’

Abraxas spat out blood into his hand and looked on in horror at the crimson liquid. He smeared it across his robes and hissed: ’’What did you do to me?’’

’’Your brain’s bleeding, Lord Malfoy. I suggest you go to St. Mungo’s for immediate intervention.’’ Cygnus walked over him, walked towards a cabinet, opened it, took out a pack of cigars, and lit one ceremoniously. He exhaled the smoke and relished in the way Abraxas was shaking and hurting and terrified for his life. ’’Tell Tom Riddle that he’s not getting that elf. If he wishes to speak to me, directly, he may do so in person here. I shall not be going to Grimmauld Place for you to ambush me and steal Kreacher.’’

Abraxas could barely keep his eyes open. The headache that cascaded through him was beyond any pain he’d ever felt. Cygnus smiled an unkind smile. ’’Tout de suite, mon petit chou-fleur.’’

’’I won’t forget this, Cygnus.’’

’’And I won’t forget being lied to for eleven years.’’ Cygnus all but spat. He didn’t do this, though, only because it did not befit the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Unlike Malfoy, he had something called ’standards’.

Only because of Narcissa’s sake, Cygnus helped Abraxas to his feet and out the door. Enough from him. This was enough good deeds for the rest of his life, even.

* * *

  
Abraxas went to St. Mungo’s where he got treated by Healer Mandy Leach. She patched him up nicely and he paid her ten times more than he needed to. Probably out of guilt, and to thank her for not murdering him when she could have. He’d killed her husband and hushed it up. Really, this was the least he could do.

His mind wasn’t tattered. He’d live if he took potions on a regular time schedule. Stressful situations were to be avoided. Abraxas laughed. He could imagine this going over well with Voldemort, a source of stress that was bottomless and constantly overflowing.

Right, of course. This was all beautiful to know. He thanked the Healer and fled for Malfoy Manor. There, a letter from his grandson waited for him. He read it once, thinking that it was going to be light hearted and just what the Mind Healer had ordered – but, oh – oh gods no – it was somehow even more stressful than this whole day combined. He walked over to where Voldemort was, bundled up in blankets and reading a book.

’’Is that a Jane Austen novel?’’

’’It’s very relaxing.’’ He said as defence and flipped a page very slowly, savouring each written word. Abraxas wished that he could be this relaxed about things. He waved around the letter his grandson had inflicted upon him and told Voldemort that he ought to read it. Voldemort scoffed and said that he rather enjoyed reading about Mr. Darcy instead and related to him immensely.

’’Of course you do. He’s a bloody idiot.’’

Voldemort hummed, not taking offence. That was a new one for the man, Abraxas noticed. He was warm and coated in fuzzy woollen jumpers he’d unearthed from Abraxas’ closet. Who wouldn’t be relaxed in such conditions? Abraxas dipped the bed with his weight as he took off his boots and pulled himself closer to the man, choosing to rest his head on his shoulder and close his eyes. He breathed in peacefully and breathed out slowly. Yes, this was very nice.

’’Can you not do that? Your breathing is incredibly distracting.’’ Voldemort grumbled and flipped another page, tense already to have to share his relaxing bubble with anyone else. Even someone as important to him as Abraxas.

’’Read this letter and I’ll go away.’’

’’Corrupted fiend.’’ Voldemort said fondly and relented. He picked up the letter and unfolded it neatly. Always so mindful of his actions. Never as haphazard how Abraxas was at heart, or how Bellatrix had been in freedom. ’’Ought I read it aloud for you, then?’’

’’I can read.’’ Abraxas wrinkled his nose. ’’It just takes a long time because the letters move. And p, d, b, q are the same letter.’’

’’They’re all related, I agree.’’ Voldemort smiled at their inside joke. Abraxas smiled back, he had to force the smile on because today had been wretched for him and he’d not even told Voldemort any of it.

Voldemort skimmed the letter and blanched. Abraxas whispered: ’’Remember how I told you to write a letter and send it to her? Well, it appears she beat you to it.’’

’’She’s keeping my soul hostage from me.’’

’’That’s Cygnus’ blood right there, mon chou.’’

Voldemort was paler than anyone had ever seen him. He asked if, at least, Abraxas was successful with Cygnus’ end.

Abraxas opened his mouth and horror seeped out.

’’Oh. _Oh_ that’s _terrible_. My **_sympathies_** for you.’’ He placed a hand over his heart even.

Abraxas groaned. He knew that to be Voldemort’s go-to sentence for whenever he had to fake being understanding and sympathetic. ’’You’ve fallen out of practise. That was obviously fake.’’

’’I do not feel bad about that to begin with. This is as good as my reactions will ever get.’’

’’You care about me. Fake it!’’

’’You just said that I should be genuine about it and that you are insulted by my faking my emotions.’’ Voldemort looked at the letter again and frowned. He couldn’t believe what a mess raising children was. And having grandfathers of said children in his life, too. As a matter of fact, Voldemort was quite abundantly shaken up at the mere idea of living this familial life.

Abraxas sighed. ’’Why am I in love with a psychopath again?’’

This brought him out of his train of thought. He whispered: ’’I _detest_ that term. There is no terminology a muggle can bestow upon my greatness, Abraxas.’’

Abraxas nodded and sarcastically agreed: ’’Oh, but of course, mon chou! You’re the only true god and we ought to all bow down to you.’’

’’Exactly.’’ Voldemort said, very pleased with himself. Well aware that Abraxas was being sarcastic, but profiting off of the praise nonetheless.

* * *

Hermione waited impatiently for Draco’s letter to get any reply.

* * *

Voldemort chose to procrastinate completely on said letter of reply. Abraxas urged him to do it sooner. Voldemort kept making up excuses until winter bloody break arrived and Draco Malfoy came to Malfoy Manor and, ever so politely, asked if they were out of their mind and that Hermione Granger was going to gut him the more they left her needy and unperceived. ’’I’m going bloody mad!’’

Draco Malfoy didn’t want to speak of the horrors Hermione Granger had forced him into as her friend. She was as impatient as she was trying to be friendly to him. ’’Can you please answer her?’’ Draco fell to his knees. ’’She’s a monster!’’

’’I don’t know whether she gets that from her mother or her father.’’ Abraxas grumbled. Voldemort elbowed him to hush. He had a resigned expression on his face.

’’I suppose I haven’t an excuse now.’’

Abraxas snorted. ’’And what was your excuse before, pray tell?’’

’’She hasn’t got free time until winter break. Marks are important as is school work. Plus networking.’’ Only someone as detached from a child’s mind as Lord Voldemort could ever believe that networking was on the mind of a twelve year old child.

Abraxas grimaced. ’’Gods how I hope those dentists instilled in her better values than people did you.’’

’’It isn’t hard.’’ Voldemort shrugged.

Abraxas grimaced harder. ’’Right.’’

* * *

A letter arrived to Hermione.

Not Draco.

But Hermione. Who was in the Granger household setting the table and chatting with her parents. Upstairs in her bedroom was the diary, cushioned underneath a big phone book and above a giant dictionary. It wouldn’t be moving anywhere without Hermione’s explicit permission. And she was much smarter this time around.

A letter arrived and all of that smartness just seemed to evaporate when faced with an answer from Lord Voldemort, He Who Must Not Be Named, You Know Who. Her f-

Hermione tore it open and read until her eyes popped. It was very eloquent, but the handwriting was a lot different to the one the diary produced. Strange. She narrowed her eyes.

* * *

’’WHY ARE YOU MAKING A DYSLEXIC MAN WRITE YOUR LETTERS?’’

’’It’s a devious punishment.’’

’’Crucio me, why don’t you!’’

’’Ah, but Abraxas, I could never do this to you.’’

’’Why are you even punishing me?’’

’’For not guarding my diary better.’’

Abraxas cursed in French as he dipped the peacock feather into ink and continued writing.

’’Dear Hermione Granger,’’

’’Shouldn’t you call her your daughter?’’

’’We have a working relationship as of yet. She’s holding my soul hostage. We’ll save the niceties once we know each other better.’’

’’Strange man with an even stranger child.’’

’’Thank you.’’

’’It wasn’t a compliment.’’

* * *

Hermione read the letter and it told her that Voldemort enjoyed her candour and valour with reaching out to him like this. He hadn’t seen something this fanciful in a very long time and was very intrigued by her threat.

While reading this very, very, very long letter – which Hermione bet at this point Voldemort hadn’t even written himself – Hermione felt as if he was treating her like a small child that didn’t deserve to be taken seriously.

* * *

’’This letter sounds pretty condescending.’’

’’I rather think it sounds very flattering.’’

’’I pity this child, mon chou. Truly I do.’’

’’Silence, peacock man.’’

’’Make me, snake.’’

Voldemort just looked at Abraxas. Abraxas looked at him.

Narcissa passed by with keen interest.

* * *

They were to meet at a nearby playground. Hermione felt this was odd.

* * *

’’A playground?’’

’’Maybe the child wants to play on the swings, how the hell am I supposed to know what these new age generations do for fun?’’

’’Are you going to push her on a swing?’’

’’Should I?’’

’’If you like.’’ Abraxas was surprised at how confused Voldemort was being.

’’I’ll read the room.’’

’’And that’s always been a talent of yours.’’ Abraxas sarcastically said. Voldemort made him start over on the letter.

Abraxas threatened to leave. Voldemort called his bluff. And then realised that it wasn’t a bluff.

’’Wait.’’

’’No, I’m leaving.’’

’’I didn’t expect this.’’

’’Go look into your tea leaves before you antagonize me next time.’’

* * *

Near the end of the letter Hermione saw that the handwriting changed to the more familiar scrawl of the diary. She thought this very odd.

_PS. I would advise against telling the dentists where you are going._

Hermione hadn’t planned on telling them anything, really. She’d just tell them she was going with Miss String somewhere.

* * *

Hermione wasn’t quite freezing her butt off at this playground, but she wished he’d picked some unassuming coffee shop as their first meeting. In her bag was the diary, as well as Miss String. They kept hissing at each other. Miss String seemed to be winning whatever shouting match they’d begun. She switched her weight from one foot to the other and bounced a bit in place. It was snowing for goodness’ sake.

She looked around for any sight of the man – the killer – the revolutionary – the Dark Lord – her fat- but she couldn’t find any. Next she huffed and pulled her pink scarf over her mouth and nose. It was a gift from her mother and she was damned happy that it wasn’t of any House Affiliation. Because she was tired of colours being associated with pacts and groups of people.

Hermione heard a crack and turned around, spotting, finally, that a man had arrived out of thin air behind a tree. He was wearing a long, great black coat that looked a couple of decades out of date. And a hat that obscured half of his face because when the light hit the hat the shadows fell over it. He was wearing leather gloves, Hermione could tell. And then when his eyes landed on hers they were red. Hermione’s turned red by instinct.

He swiftly strode to her side and asked her if she’d like to go someplace warmer. ’’I underestimated the weather. It is freezing.’’

Hermione blinked. She hadn’t gotten his name, but she knew – without a fault – that this strange and uncanny man was Lord Voldemort. He kept glancing around as if searching for spies or enemies. But his red eyes reminded Hermione of professor Quirrel and the man that had possessed him. ’’What did you do with the stone?’’

’’I got my body back. Well, technically this is a new body.’’ He didn’t praise her on her deductive abilities or how smart she was how her parents did (and they would forever be her parents, those lovely dentists that played dungeons and dragons and loved her with all of their being).

Voldemort offered her his hand.

Hermione looked at the appendage as if it belonged to some foreign creature of a thousand eyes and tongues, with barbed wire for skin, and terrible, monstrous horns.

’’It is for side along apparition.’’

Hermione pointed to a nearby coffee shop she’d seen on her way to this playground. ’’How about we go there?’’

Voldemort lifted his gaze from the untaken hand and decided that it might as well be as good as place as any to venture into. ’’It looks suitable enough.’’

Hermione numbly nodded. She felt strange all over at seeing this man walk. His voice wasn’t how she imagined it to be. There were no audio recordings of him. Scant was the world of his photographs, either. This was a strange sight to behold.

Hermione’s bag hissed. Voldemort’s attention turned towards it as they were crossing the street and a car honked at him for crossing during a red light. He had startled at the noise. ’’There are many more of these things than I remember.’’ He whispered under his breath, more for his benefit than Hermione’s. She silently followed him, unable to ask the questions that burned her mind like cinderblocks.

He didn’t touch her. Not how her dad would touch her back as he guided her places, not how her dad would touch her head or kiss her forehead. There was a great distance between Voldemort and Hermione. She didn’t know if she wanted it to ever stop. She didn’t know whether someone like him was even capable of that.

So, she wrung her hands together and picked a seat in a corner, away from windows. He seemed grateful, if only briefly as she glanced at his red eyes and noted that they were different. A metamorphagus kept these things in mind. Tonks had told her the necessity of knowing her target. In order to impersonate someone she ought to really know their ticks and mannerisms and facial twitches.

’’How hasn’t anyone asked about your eyes?’’

’’It’s impolite.’’ Voldemort said. Hermione didn’t think that was what it was. He indulged her in telling her the truth. ’’It’s called a notice-me-not charm.’’

Hermione nodded, then. She was appeased.

The waitress did not notice them until Hermione had to call her over to order.

’’Are you hungry?’’ Voldemort asked her, telling her that she can order something to eat.

’’I, er, have dinner ready at home.’’ Hermione said the word specifically to see his reaction. He didn’t mind it.

They wound up ordering hot cocoa and coffee with milk, cream, and sugar. 

’’My parents won’t let me have caffeine.’’ Hermione said as the coffee arrived and she took sips. ’’I want to see what the fuss is about.’’

Voldemort, yet again, didn’t find it unnerving or annoying for the Grangers to be mentioned. ’’Sensible people. They take care of you well?’’

Hermione nodded. She’d put the bag on a chair right next to hers. Voldemort’s attention sometimes strayed to it, no doubt wanting to see his fabled diary. Or maybe he was fascinated by Miss String cursing the inanimate object out like a snake sailor.

’’I have a snake.’’

’’Yes, you’re rather fond of them.’’ Voldemort said. ’’The basilisk is a pet of yours.’’

’’She isn’t a pet.’’ Hermione wouldn’t call Helga that. She was more of a shoulder to cry on and someone to gossip with. ’’She’s a friend.’’

Then Hermione remembered a bunch more of her friends and asked: ’’Is Harry Potter my brother maybe?’’

And Voldemort choked on his hot cocoa, mid sip. Life flashed before his eyes.

Hermione took all of this to mean ’no’. ’’How is he a parselmouth then?’’

Voldemort conjured himself water to clear his throat because the cocoa had lodged someplace it shouldn’t. He fanned Hermione’s questions away in favour of getting this whole health situation handled.

’’Should I get someone?’’ Hermione asked. She didn’t know how someone ought to act around a Dark Lord that also happened to be one’s birth fath-

’’No, no.’’ Voldemort calmed his hacking. ’’I am all right.’’ He looked at Hermione’s almost finished coffee. ’’Do you like it?’’

’’It’s my first coffee. Given to me by the Dark Lord.’’

’’Such honour.’’ Voldemort’s voice went up in pitch. Hermione, against her better judgement, cracked a small smile.

’’Who’s my mother?’’

’’The hard hitting questions almost immediately. I respect that.’’ Voldemort evaded. Hermione frowned and waited in silence until he finally answered her: ’’Her name is Bellatrix Lestrange.’’

’’I don’t know who that is.’’

’’She was my General.’’

’’That’s not cool at all.’’

’’She’s a feminist.’’ Voldemort tried to appeal to his child, who probably had a giant poster of Margaret Thatcher in her bedroom. He was too afraid of asking.

’’That’s somewhat cool. Are you one?’’

’’I apologize for not answering your letter earlier. I had important Dark Lord business to attend to.’’ He evaded. 

Hermione wondered if Leia and Vader had had a chance to talk, would Vader be speaking like this to his daughter? It was a tragic thought to have. She was feeling the effects of that coffee now and she didn’t think this was a good idea. Her leg was bouncy. What kind of adult lets a twelve year old drink so much coffee and sugar in one clean go?

Voldemort nursed his cocoa and tapped his fingers together out of anxiousness or boredom, it was difficult to tell. It was difficult to read him, too. Hermione couldn’t get her mind off of the fact that a mass murderer was her fathe-

’’What do you want with me?’’ Hermione imagined a sea of scenarios that stretched out like an everlasting abyss to devour her. She pictured him telling her that she was going to be taken away from the only family she’s ever known and brainwashed into hating them; she pictured him telling her that she would be obliviated after this and that he only wanted his cursed diary back; she pictured dreadful, horrible things – but the one thing she didn’t picture came true:

’’Whatever you like.’’ Lord Voldemort said.

Hermione’s hair mimicked his shade and it was almost the same as the one she usually wore. He took notice of it and smiled. It was as comforting a smile as she imagined a Dark Lord to have. He didn’t touch her, of course, because she didn’t want him to. Nor did she think she ever would become comfortable enough to do so. But she nodded faintly aware that she was saying something that didn’t make sense to anyone but them: _’’Why did you hide me away?’’_

_’’I did no such thing. I was indisposed. Bella, your mother, was put in Azkaban where she remains. Your aunt Narcissa –’’_

Hermione had to stop him right there. Cutting off the Dark Lord mid-sentence had to be a new acomplishment for her, even by normal standards: ’’Wait, wait, Draco Malfoy’s my cousin?’'

’’Yes.’’

Hermione was horrified and disgusted. ’’Ew.’’

’’He’s got the right spirit, albeit I imagine he _is_ a prat.’’

’’Ewwww!’’

Voldemort could hear the faint genetic remnants of Walburga Black’s voice in his daughter’s and felt very betrayed.

Miss String pushed her head out of Hermione’s bag and hissed, needy for attention. Hermione told her that she had to go back inside else people were going to stare. Voldemort, in particular, seemed to be staring quite a lot at it. ’’You have a snake.’’ He said.

’’Her name’s Miss String.’’

’’What an unimaginative name.’’ Hermione frowned. Voldemort amended. ’’It is nice.’’

’’Nice used to mean stupid. I read it somewhere.’’

’’I’ve met a lot of nice people without knowing it then.’’ Voldemort smiled with his teeth and Hermione rolled her eyes at the joke.

Hermione asked if they could go on a walk so she could carry Miss String around without fuss, and because: ’’I can’t go back home with this much caffeine in me.’’

’’Yes, your dentists might think you’re getting your caffeine fix from a bad influence and we certainly cannot have that.’’

Hermione didn’t know the Dark Lord could be funny. She was a bit happy that he was.

Voldemort paid and clucked his tongue at the inflation. ’’Back in my day,’’ Hermione didn’t know when that day was and what a strange notion not to know how old her own father was, ’’you couldn’t spend a pound in **_weeks_**.’’

’’I think they overcharged because they thought you were posh.’’

Voldemort snorted so loudly that Hermione thought he ruptured something.

They kept their topics pretty neutral. They talked about magic and old books (he’d read Pride and Prejudice and Hermione quite distinctly remembered finding the book tediously boring which horrified Voldemort). He didn’t know any movies that Hermione liked, but he was charmed by the idea of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland having a little cartoon. ’’I liked that book. It helped me see that I wasn’t as strange as everyone thought. Hated the cat, however. It always irked me.’’

’’I read Matilda and figured that if Matilda could do these odd things, then I might not be all by myself in this crazy world.’’

’’You should never have thought that, if even for a moment.’’ He said, for a moment, his voice softer than freshly fallen snow. ’’You were supposed to grow up surrounded by magic.’’

’’I grew up loved.’’

Voldemort remembered a promise he and Bellatrix had made the yet unborn child. _It will have parents. It will be loved._

’’You did indeed.’’

On their meandering walk they managed to circle back to the playground. Voldemort asked her if she still played on those.

’’I like the swings.’’ Hermione admitted. They looked very cold today, though.

Voldemort just nodded.

’’Maybe some other time.’’ Hermione managed to find her voice.

 _’’Other_ time?’’

’’Yes.’’ Hermione said. ’’I haven’t decided to give you back the diary yet.’’

Voldemort nodded. ’’How quaint. I suppose I’ll have to earn it back through more coffee trips.’’

’’I think I don’t like coffee.’’

’’You will. It’s an acquired taste.’’ Voldemort told her. It was almost as if he meant that, he, too was an acquired taste.

Hermione crossed her arms together and peered up at him, unable to discern what he wanted. Unable to discern what she wanted of him either. That was the part that scared her the most. Not knowing what other people wanted and meant was always something she had struggled with, but not knowing what she wanted was new and frightening territory for her.

Voldemort told her that she could write Abraxas Malfoy if she wished to reach him.

Hermione nodded. She turned around and went back to where dinner was waiting for her and where her family was no doubt worried why a little trip lasted a lot longer than Hermione had anticipated. A couple of steps later, she heard a distinct crack and Lord Voldemort had gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really motivated by comments to write this, I guess. Hahahaha. Love hearing what y'all think and love reading what you think might happen next. :D Cheers, and I hope you enjoyed this update! Let me know and I'll try and update more frequently.


	11. Chapter 11

Winter break passed in a blink of an eye. Hermione had not written Voldemort or Draco throughout it. She wasn’t shaken or scared by their meeting, but whenever she looked at her parents, Drs Granger, she could feel herself be ashamed of keeping such secrets from them. Hermione gathered that they did not know that she was not their daughter and that unnerved her slightly, the power of magic and what it could do.

Tonks sent her chocolate frogs that jumped about her room and caused her to giggle. She was amused by the metamorphagus girl, newly accepted into the auror program and already credited to starting three accidental fires. Only Alastor Moody seemed to see any potential in her. Hermione told her that she believed in her and that she was going to do great as long as she practised really well. It was something her parents had told her so many times that Hermione could remember the phrase instantly. She figured that, in order to be good at something, one had to practise day in and day night.

Like writing letters to one’s birth father who also happened to be a notorious terrorist. That needed lots of practise in order to get right. Hermione gnawed at the end of her pencil with nerves. It was better than eating her own fingernails, really. She spat out some of the wood and grimaced slightly. This was a bad habit she was coming into.

The Slytherin girls kept pulling her to go with them places. They wanted to explore the castle and find out all sorts of nefarious spots for eavesdropping. Pansy wanted to build an empire of spies, she said. Millie wanted to build an empire of cats, so whenever they saw one – she had to take food out of her bag and rub the back of their ears all while cooing. Daphne didn’t want to do anything because nothing interested her and she just wanted to leave Hogwarts in one piece. ’’Thank Goodness all of that Heir nonsense is over. It was Potter, then? Right?’’

Hermione’s stomach sank. She was the Heiress of Slytherin. Not Potter how everyone thought that had opened the chamber, frightened everyone, and promptly closed it so no one got wind of it. She wondered what Ginny Weasley was up to, as she hadn’t seen her since their frightful meeting in the Chamber with Helga.

Tracey nodded along. ’’I suppose so. Potter’s a bit weird, isn’t he?’’

’’He’s my friend.’’ Hermione said.

They all turned to look at her and wait until another head sprouted from her neck. It didn’t. They were disappointed. Pansy told her that she should learn to pick better friends. Hermione didn’t think one was even capable of picking friends. She’d never had any and was just happy to be around people that wanted to be around her. Hermione glanced up at the ceiling of the corridor they were walking in and saw Peeves, who had been carrying a great bucket full of paint. He used this momentum of being found out to throw it all over them. ’’LITTLE SNAKES, LITTLE SNAKES, FULL OF GREEN DYES!’’

Hermione made an aggravated noise in the back of her throat. This day had started spectacularly. Especially as their next class was with THE Gilderoy Lockhart. Hermione’s heart swooned at the mere mention of the man. Let alone the sight of him.

He was spectacular. Enchanting. Wondrous. Mesmerising. Handsome. Heroic.

Everything that Hermione’s heart wanted and more. Hermione sat in the front desk and watched him, wrote down each gospel worthy word of his, listened to his mellifluous voice, and decided that she wanted to marry Gilderoy Lockhart very, very much.

Draco Malfoy glanced over at her whenever she’d make googly eyes at Lockhart he’d whisper: ’’The lot of you are crazy.’’ Lot here denoted anyone infatuated by Gilderoy Lockhart. Draco was not one such person and he couldn’t understand anyone wanting to be anywhere near the sparkly man.

Hermione would elbow him then and remain all proper and smiley in case Lockhart looked her way. Her eyes would turn the same shade as his and he’d marvel at her skill and ask her if she could change her features to be like his, too. He quite enjoyed looking at himself. Hermione nodded vehemently and did as bid. Draco called her a circus act and she kicked him in the shin hard and told him that he was being mean and that cousins weren’t supposed to be mean. Why wasn’t he more like her friend Tonks, who sent her chocolate frogs and was kind.

’’You –’’ Draco had floundered, now outside of class when Hermione was free to be herself and be as loud as she wished without ruining her reputation with Lockhart, ’’you do know she’s your cousin, too?’’

Hermione did not know that Tonks was her cousin. She was elated and her grin widened.

’’Yes, our aunt’s name is Andromeda and she’s somewhere off in the muggle world. I’ve never met her.’’

’’Oh, I have.’’ Hermione said. ’’Andy’s very cool.’’ She told him about how sometimes the Tonks would watch her while her dentist parents were off doing surgery or going on conferences. There were a lot of conferences for dentists, a lot more than most people thought.

Draco blinked owlishly. She almost asked him if he was going to hoot in disbelief. He didn’t hoot in disbelief and Hermione was saddened by this. But, she brightened up post haste and said that she was happy with being related to someone as cool as Tonks and Andy.

’’My mum’s super cool, thanks.’’ Draco was a mummy’s boy at heart and it showed. He put a hand to his hip and stuck his tongue out at Hermione. She told him he didn’t have to scent her. He asked her what that meant. Hermione was reminded that people in the snake house had fuck all clue about snakes. So she sighed and explained to Draco.

* * *

’’How did you dinner date go?’’ Abraxas wanted all of the details. He stretched over the master bed and wouldn’t let Voldemort go anywhere else, even though he looked interested in leaving the comforts of expensive linen.

’’I shall tell you later. I need to get something.’’ He pushed Abraxas off of him and the man scowled, but relented. It always hurt the would-be-lord’s ego whenever Abraxas wouldn’t let him have his way and bruised egos didn’t make for a fun night of anything.

’’You look lovely in my sleeping robes.’’ Abraxas complimented and added a little wink for good measure.

’’I had to size them down, but yes. Thank you.’’ Voldemort did not notice the wink. The blind bastard. He was quick footed as he made short work of going over to a painting of some nondescript Malfoy of olde. Voldemort moved it away with a spell and walked through a hidden door. Abraxas followed after him, having nothing better to do than enjoy his retirement with a man his heart had chosen without consulting a single brain cell of his brain’s.

Inside of the secret room was a trunk. Voldemort knelt before it, opened it swiftly, and began to rummage about.

’’What are you looking for exactly?’’ Abraxas tried being helpful. He only wanted to sate his curiosity.

Voldemort carefully pushed away old school uniforms, Jean Michel Jarre records, books upon books upon books, and a couple of suffrage pins that he spared a moment to glance at before returning for his hunt.

’’If you’d like for a bookcase for those books, you only need ask. I did tell you that this house was just as much yours as it is mine.’’

’’No need. I remember the stance of your family. They allowed me this trunk to store here and I shall honour their decision. I wouldn’t want the ghost of your mother to haunt me.’’

Abraxas inhaled as if he had many words to say but not enough breath to accompany them. In the end he chose not to say anything on that, electing to ask again: ’’What are you looking for? Perhaps I can help you?’’

Voldemort took out a worn out little book from the trunk and smiled wonderfully. ’’Here it is!’’ He showed it to Abraxas and on it was a barely discernable title: Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. ’’Hermione likes it as well.’’

’’Oh, it’s your little book.’’ Abraxas remembered it. He searched his mind for why it was important. ’’It’s the one thing you took from the orphanage.’’

’’It’s the only good thing that ever came from that place.’’ Voldemort sneered. He held the book and noted that it was much smaller than he remembered. It was worn by age and how many times he’d read it over the course of decades. He flipped it open and analysed the writings he’d left in the margins while first learning how to write and read. It was the only book that had ever made a lick of sense before going to Hogwarts and beginning anew as a wizard and not a worthless muggle orphan.

’’Do you want to reread it?’’

’’I shall give it to Hermione. She said she borrowed hers from a library and doesn’t have one at home. Everyone ought to have this book.’’

’’Yours is annotated.’’ Abraxas said. ’’Won’t you miss it?’’

’’I am not a child to miss children’s books.’’ Voldemort was still kneeling by the trunk and had to look up at Abraxas as he let him know what a preposterous being he was being right now. Abraxas shrugged and knelt down beside him, taking a look at what was inside of the trunk, too.

Abraxas took out a bunch of peacock feathers from the trunk. ’’I gave you these.’’

’’No, Abraxas, I have three peacock feather dealers on the side that you have no idea about.’’

Abraxas gasped dramatically, outraged by the sheer nerve of Voldemort to go against him like this. He draped himself over the trunk and bemoaned the day they’d ever met. Voldemort scowled at him, unaware as to how he should respond. Abraxas always pushed him out of tact and the peacock relished in it.

Voldemort clutched the book close to his chest and said that he thought Hermione might enjoy the book. ’’I don’t have many things to give her.’’

’’You’ve already given her a piece of your soul and now you’re giving her a piece of your heart – really, Tom, I’m surprised how easily you’ve taken to parenting.’’ Abraxas snort laughed into his hand when he saw the horrified expression on his amour’s face.

’’I have no use of this book anymore.’’ Voldemort said defensively. He did not care about any sort of child, even if it may be of his own blood. All he wanted was to be a cordial parent and gift her a book that he had no need of anymore. It was both a good tactic at appeasing her and getting himself more room to store things into his trunk.

’’I’ll buy you a new one, don’t worry.’’ Abraxas said, indicating the book. ‘’So you can give it to her without worrying of not having your own to read when you’re sad.’’

’’I do not read children’s books when sad.’’ Voldemort scoffed, yet again being defensive. Abraxas was the only one that drew this side of him out.

Abraxas couldn’t understand why Voldemort wouldn’t just admit to it. They’d lived together for decades. It was all right for them to know each other. ’’All right, fine. Let me ask you something then. What do I do when I’m sad?’’

’’You antagonize me.’’ Voldemort said with a narrow of his crimson eyes. ’’And you mope around the manor until someone – usually that’s me – goes out of their way to comfort you with reassuring words.’’

’’Words that are fake.’’ Abraxas said. He knew that Voldemort had the emotional scope of a teaspoon and didn’t find it appalling anymore. Only exhausting.

’’Words that you want me to tell you every time, fake or not.’’ Voldemort retorted. He switched up Abraxas’ voice, always good at mimicking other people. ‘’Tom, Tom, I’m so terribly sad. Won’t you tell me what a wonderful person I am so I don’t fall asleep and soak my bed with tears!’’

Abraxas nodded. ’’See, that’s true.’’ He stretched out his long limbs to tap one long, pianist finger on the annotated copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, ’’When you’re sad you read this cover to cover. That’s, also, true. Multiple things can be true at the same time.’’

Voldemort still said he was going to be giving this copy to Hermione. ’’It’s vintage.’’ He said. ’’Children are consumed by wanting to know about the past.’’

’’Some children don’t outgrow that and turn into sad nut cases.’’

’’I rather think Mrs. Cole would quit on day one of trying to take care of you.’’

’’You think she’d try?’’

’’Ah, my mistake. You know her better than I do.’’ Voldemort decided to sprinkle some of his infamous sarcasm onto the conversation at hand.

Abraxas was well prepared for such a feat: ’’Well, you’ve _repressed_ most memories and I’ve _internalized_ what you’ve told me – so I suppose by those standards I do have a better recollection of her character.’’

Voldemort took the book and decided to leave before more psychological warfare was had.

* * *

Cygnus Black did go back to Grimmauld Place in secret. He had donned the appearance of someone else and taken all precaution so Abraxas’ spies (and the peacock had them as a real peacock had feathers: plentiful) couldn’t intervene and steal away his knowledge.

Muggles, filthy creatures that they were, had a belief that the things they knew could not be stolen. That their thoughts were their own. Cygnus knew better. He stalked up the stairs silently and peered at the painting of his dear Walburga. She tilted her head inquisitively. He had donned the appearance of a woman that would never come here willingly: Eileen Prince. Unfortunately wed to a muggle. At least his Andromeda had never had such hatred for her family to do something so foul.

Eileen used to be one of them. She was Walburga’s best friend. Their children were enemies, which was ironic in a way, really. Cygnus always praised Sirius on picking on the measly halfblood. Served him right, really. The Dark Lord was fond of the unseemly boy for his potioneering skills, as well as how he could relate to his treatment. Walburga had not been merciful to Tom Riddle during Hogwarts. It was one of her harshest failures to have failed at running Tom Riddle out of Hogwarts. The leech had remained and graduated with honours, stealing away the Head Boy position from Cygnus, whose grades were not nearly as high as his, but his blood was purer and he deserved to have that commemorated in a fashion.

’’You are not Eileen. Eileen is not as tall as you are.’’ Walburga inquisitively said. She had a feeling that she knew who this was, but the grin wouldn’t come yet. She wasn’t certain of the identity of the person inside of her home. Though, the way he moved did differ from Eileen’s in a distinct and roundabout way that she was all too familiar with. In her portrait she crossed her arms and asked: ’’Who are you, foul fiend?’’

Cygnus winked with Eileen’s face and Eileen’s eyes that ever so slightly shifted in colour. Walburga saw her own eyes stare at her and clapped her hands in joy. ’’Oh!’’ She said, caught on finally and ready to accept the facts laid before her. ’’You are most definitely not Eileen.’’

’’Burga, I truly hope not.’’ Cygnus’ face morphed back into his and she let out a cheerful chortle at seeing her favourite non-Orion shaped relative.

’’Cygnus! You’ve come back to see me.’’ Her joy could not be measured. A portrait got lonely and it was only natural that at any sign of proper company she would melt.

Cygnus gave her a smile that was just a little bit too much like Orion’s and Walburga cheered even harder. ’’That one never fails to make you laugh.’’

’’Do one with Sirius. I haven’t seen that blood traitor in years.’’

’’I shan’t be made a tool for your own amusement.’’ He briskly said and cut her fun short. She pouted then and called him a wet blanket. Cygnus’ curls turned into snakes to hiss at her. Walburga startled. Always afraid of snakes, which never quite made itself logical as she was the biggest snake of them all.

’’Why are you here then?’’ Walburga drawled, reigning in her fear of the monstrous animals decorating her dear Cygnus’ hair. ’’Come to steal away Grimmauld Place for your own family? It belongs to my boys and when Regulus comes back from wherever he’s gone, he shall have a place for him here. It is his right.’’

’’It is his right, yes. But he is, I’m afraid, dead.’’

Walburga would not believe it. Cygnus tried to explain the newfound information that he had, but Walburga would not hear of it. She did not want to know it, nor did she want to hear Cygnus try to reason with her. ’’My boys are alive and well.’’

’’One of your sons is in Azkaban!’’ Cygnus detested coming here and speaking to a woman that was only a frail shadow of the Walburga Black he knew.

’’My boys are both well and away!’’ The portrait screamed. She wouldn’t have it any other way.

Kreacher appeared soon after to see what the fuss was about and what had caused his Mistress to be so unnerved.

’’Kreacher.’’ Cygnus addressed the elf. The elf floundered, unable to hide his joy at serving a Black again that wasn’t made of paint and oil. ’’I have need of you for a task.’’

Kreacher looked as if he was experiencing Deja vu. Cygnus cared not. He needed to find where that bloody Locket had wound up. If he could find a way to hurt Tom Riddle, the arriviste who did not know his place and was going to weaponize and radicalize all of his family into self-destruction, that would really be helpful.

And in order to destroy him, it would be imperative to do so by getting rid of all of his horcruxes. A shudder coursed through him at the thought of being in a position to split his soul. And then split his soul multiple times. Abraxas’ mind was full of so many delectable secrets. It was a shame he hadn’t seen more of them before the man’s brain bled from the attack. Next time (and Cygnus would make sure there was a next time) he would savour his time with Abraxas’ mind. Tom Riddle’s was barred from him, but Abraxas’ wasn’t as skilled in deflecting natural born legilimens.

Obedient, biddable Kreacher brought him the Locket in question and told him everything that had happened with Regulus, bawling by the near end of it. Cygnus stared at him with cold, disinterested eyes, and only snatched the Locket from his grasp. He did not care for the elf’s sob story. It was nothing more than a servant to serve. A something, not a someone. And why would Cygnus ever expend any energy into caring for the well being of a thing that wasn’t even worth a darned galleon to him?

’’You may go now.’’ He said to the elf and it looked sad, but understanding of its place. He turned, then, towards Walburga, whose painting couldn’t pale how a real person could, but a difference was notable in the way she looked at the Locket and remembered that her youngest son had not returned in a very, very long time.

’’My boy’s died.’’ A world crashed around her. ’’My little king. My Reggie’s died, Cygnus.’’

’’Trying to kill Tom Riddle. You ought to be happy and proud of him. We never liked Slytherin’s Mudblood very much. And he came closest to what we all wished. Bellatrix is the degenerate, the only one that was enamoured by his honeysuckle words.’’ Whereas there was a world of grief in Walburga’s words, there was only a world of loathing in Cygnus’. ’’Even your blood traitor son had the right plan about him.’’

Walburga looked through Cygnus, unable to cope with what she had learned. ’’Please, do what you must. I am not alive to strangle him, to bury my nails into his skull and rupture that filthy, feeble brain of his until he screams raw and painful for an end that I will not swiftly give him.’’ Her voice was cold as she said this, colder than any winter at Hogwarts, colder than any winter in Azkaban could ever be. She made Cygnus vow to her that he would make sure that Tom Riddle died for his crimes against their family. ’’If you won’t do it for Regulus, do it for Bellatrix, whose mind he’s tainted beyond recognition, whose blood he’s watered down with his own weak and bastardized blood. At least the proof of that horrid union was cut at its roots before it could embarrass us all further.’’

Cygnus, much alike Walburga, had once thought that the child had died. She had not. He told Walburga as much and watched as her expression soured and her will to go on flee. ’’Kill it, too. It is another halfblood from your branch. I hope you are proud.’’

’’I have daughters, Walburga. Their children are not our children. Women are nothing more than another family’s plate to set at the table. You had sons and they both failed at securing the family line. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black dies. The most we can hope for is a dignified death.’’

’’All while the Malfoy line prospers.’’ Walburga sneered.

Cygnus shared the sentiment. Abraxas flashed in his mind, in agony, and the thought of doing something like this to him again kept him going.

’’Will you kill it?’’ Walburga asked. ’’That child’s his claim to all of this. Do you want Tom Riddle to have access to these books, these walls that bar halfblood blood from entering, but allow Black blood into doing so. Do you truly want him to know the secrets we know, the trades we have done, the magic we have created and bettered for our internal use?’’

Cygnus did not know if he could do this quite as easily as Walburga urged him to. ’’Andromeda has a halfblood child.’’

’’It is a metamorphagus and this has saved her. She is rare and magical. We spoke of this in person last time you had come here.’’

’’So is the other child.’’

’’Really?’’ Walburga breathed in, surprised by this. She had not known and she hated not knowing things. ’’A parselmouth as well, then?’’ Cygnus nodded. ’’Use her, then. Twist her against her father.’’

’’She was raised by muggles, Walburga. She is _being_ raised by muggles.’’ Cygnus could not stomach that someone of his blood, of his family, of Bellatrix’s creatiron could ever be so unfortunately raised. Her child was supposed to be a Lestrange, a pureblood; the greatest thing to ever happen to Cygnus, who had already been disappointed by both Andromeda and Narcissa. To this day he could not understand why Narcissa had married Lucius, a man that was beneath her. The Malfoy family could never measure up to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Why she would willingly put herself in Abraxas Malfoy’s sphere of influence...

’’The memories she does not have cannot hurt her.’’ Walburga counselled. ’’She is a little girl and poses no threat in combat.’’

’’She is a Black by blood, she will remember them sooner or later and what will I do then if I steal her away?’’ Cygnus sighed bitterly and ran a hand through his hair. Hair that was black with curls how his Bellatrix had them.

’’You are her grandfather.’’ Walburga could not be reasoned with. Yet again she saw things only how a portrait could, facing forwards, without any additional angles to peruse and take into consideration. Cygnus shook his head. No, for now he would only focus on destroying the horcruxes. He glanced at the Locket and could already feel its malicious energy swirling around him, urging him to do something he might regret.

’’How do you destroy a horcrux?’’ He abruptly asked.

Walburga was the most well read of them. If Regulus had figured out Tom Riddle had horcruxes, then it was because he had read one of the books Walburga had had on hand.

The portrait shrugged her shoulders. It was such an undignified and uncharacteristically calm gesture at the same time. ’’Have you any Basilisk venom on you? I know you do not know how to cast fiendfyre and these are the only ones that I know of. Perhaps you might be keen and travel the world, waste your time and mine, and search for Herpo The Foul, the fabled creator of this immoral practise?’’

Cygnus did not have the time. Not when Tom Riddle lived and plotted. Not while his daughter lay in Azkaban and rotted. Not while he was all alone without an ally in sight that would help him take down Tom Riddle. He refused to go to Dumbledore. That old coot was a turncloak if Cygnus had ever seen one. A blood traitor to have done what he had to his own sister. A Grindelwald supporter and the not. No, he was much too changeable for any proper business to be handled.

’’Have you seen your family, Cygnus? I only wait for them to come and they never do. You have feet.’’ Walburga gestured his legs and added: ’’Why do you not visit them like you have me?’’

’’Andromeda would throw me out. Narcissa has asked to keep our correspondence only in the written form. She’s a sensitive girl who gets easily riled and I do not wish to anger her else she might get that incompetent husband of hers to try and duel me.’’

’’Yes.’’ Walburga swayed in the portrait, humming a composition. Cygnus recognized it _. The Quartet for the end of time by Olivier Messiaen._

It was as overt as Walburga’s portrait would get in ordering him about. She hummed the composition lovingly, finding peace in music as a musician herself. All Blacks were instructed in the arts of music as young children to learn how to focus their magic before such a time came as they were allowed to pick up wands of their own. Walburga had honed her voice and mourned that none of her children had inherited it. None of her nieces had, as well. She had a powerful voice, in which she infused her magic and gave way for beautiful and wondrous spells to be cast. A nonverbal caster she was not, but a wandless one she was.

Cygnus had played the piano with Orion’s violin as accompaniment. Bellatrix had played his nerves, he’d liked to joke, but she was good with a harp, nifty, nimble fingers that she had were perfect for plucking the strings and giving her an air of that lacking femininity.

He stalked up to Sirius’ discarded room, unable to face Walburga anymore. She did not hum anymore, but elected to sing a song in Latin that burrowed deep within his bones and scared him. He opened the door and tried to search for anything that might put the wretched mutt in a good mood. Prisoners were _ever_ _so_ **_fickle_**.

Once he found what he was looking for, he left through the back exit. Mindful of anyone that lingered on Eileen Prince’s form in a suspicious manner before disapparating back to a third location. He did not need any of this tracked to him.

* * *

Summer came and Hermione’s marks were top of the chart. She bickered with the diary, that was much more biddable since Hermione’s meeting with Voldemort. But it was good natured bickering. Hermione allowed herself to breathe in and believe that she could have a normal summer with her parents.

But a part of her wanted to ask questions that she wasn’t certain she could handle the answers to.

So, she wrote a letter.

Dear Abraxas Malfoy

Hermione thought of how this was going to go. Draco was her cousin, after all. It wouldn’t be too weird if she went over there for a visit. And Hermione had finished almost all of her summer assignments on the first night back. It was child’s play. She was bored. Going over to Malfoy Manor wasn’t that big of a deal was it? Hermione’s parents were friends with Draco’s parents, too, to make things funnier.

She wished she could be open with her parents about this, all of this, but she couldn’t bring herself to worry them with her life. Hermione crumpled the letter then and threw it in the bin in her room. It was overflowing with failed letters.

Hermione began writing a new letter.

Dear Draco

But it was around the time she decided that no, this letter wasn’t right either – that Hermione’s mum came inside and delightfully exclaimed: ’’Narcissa Malfoy – that’s Draco’s mum, sweetheart, has invited us over.’’

Hermione’s dad was scrambling to collect dice and maps. He was flipping through handbooks and guides and muttering about beginners and 6 person plays and how positively exciting it was playing with witches and wizards. They offered distinct and unprecedented perspectives on all manner of play.

’’Are we sleeping over?’’ Hermione asked. She knew that if her dad was packing up like this that he was going to be having lots of fun.

’’Well, probably. You’ll have Draco to keep you company while us adults play a short campaign after dinner.’’ Hermione’s mum winked. She didn’t mind this at all. It sounded like a proper night of fun for her and her dad.

The only thought bouncing around Hermione’s head was if Voldemort might play Dungeons and Dragons with her parents. She burst into uncontrollable laughter at the mere mental image of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I moved countries so I honestly don't know when I will update

**Author's Note:**

> I'll only make more if there's enough people who want it, so holler and what not. Cheers, hope you enjoy ~


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